


A Doctor in the House

by KittenKin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Doctor John Watson, First Kiss, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 29,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23936938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittenKin/pseuds/KittenKin
Summary: A replacement for Series 3 Episode 1 of BBC's "Sherlock", becausemy John wouldnever.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 461
Kudos: 469
Collections: Sherlock26





	1. The Landmark

There are yards of gauze hiding the multitude of sloppy stitches put in by a doctor who most certainly had no right to the title, and an off-the-rack suit covers up the bruises and abrasions left exposed. One might argue that after two years, two more days to get his wounds properly attended to surely wouldn't make much of a difference, but Sherlock cannot abide any further delay.

It's over. He can finally allow himself to see John again. To _think_ about him. To _hope_.

And so he slips into the country quietly, unofficially, only contacting Mycroft to demand 24 hours and John's location. His brother texts back with a time, the name of a restaurant, and a warning.

Sherlock disregards the warning entirely; he's too impatient for his reward. So many days and nights and injuries he's had to endure, and the terrible, terrible decisions he's had to make. Surely he's allowed this; just one moment and the hope of the hours to come, a chance to see John again, to hear his voice, watch the play of light over his skin and glinting in his eyes, to take new measurements of his laugh lines and stubble and the little divot on his finger where the pen presses hardest.

Sherlock hurries, careful when he's not thinking and sloppy when he remembers that they're all dead now. He takes a cab to save his body from being jostled on the tube, and slips in through the kitchens of the Landmark to avoid any unpleasantries about his lack of reservation.

Reservations! Ha! He has none, not anymore. He's finished, he's succeeded, and now he's going to see John. It's going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine, all fine. He's giddy with relief and drunk on hope.

High on adrenaline and London air, wracked with fever and stress, Sherlock doesn't even recognize how irrational his thoughts have become, how unsteady his steps. He weaves through the kitchen, nearly falls through the double doors, on auto-pilot, lured by siren song, pulled inexorably toward John.

He freezes in the hallway.

John.

Details whirl around him and Sherlock can actually hear the rustle-roar of them for once, like leaves tossed in the wind. His eyes take in the sight of John's hair and shoulders and suit and gestures and knees and tapping left shoe. There's a woman seated across from him but she's only a blur; all Sherlock can focus on is the ring box in John's jacket pocket, interior, right side.

Oh.

That's what Mycroft meant.

He becomes aware of his legs again when they buckle, and remembers the caning when he fetches up clumsily against the wall. The pain of burst stitches gives him some clarity, and he manages to shake his head when a staffmember stops in concern, asking...asking something. It must be in English but for some reason Sherlock can't parse it. He slides inelegantly down to the floor and tries to deduce the reason for a sudden shriek. He thinks that's the sort of thing he used to be interested in.

= = = = =

John turns in his seat, craning his neck at the commotion near the kitchens. There hasn't been a crash or scuffle, but there's something in the sudden flurry of voices that's raised his hackles. Mary calls his name, but he ignores her for the moment, narrowing his eyes at the way the diners nearest the hallway are exclaiming and gesturing. The manager fast-walks over with a sort of angry elegance, but then startles and whirls around, nearly tripping over his own feet.

"Oh my God, is he--"

"Call 999!"

"Is there a doctor in the house?!"

John bolts out of his chair.

= = = = =

"I'm a doctor. What's the-- _oh my God..._ "

"I'm too late, was too slow, it took too _long_ , too long--"

"Sherlock, Jesus, _how_ \--"

"--but it's fine, it's _fine_ , I saved him, that's all that matters, that's all, nothing else matters--"

"You're bleeding! Sherlock! Hey! What happened?!"

"--it's just pain, it's just a stupid law, it's just transport, it's just one person, I can do it, just a few, just _criminals_ , have to keep him safe, it's just one day, I can do this, I _have_ to do this, just one week, one month, one year--"

"Christ, call an ambulance, get me some towels, here, help me get this off him. _Sherlock!_ Sherlock it's me. _Look at me_ , damn it!"

"John, John, _John_ , lost him, left him, saved him, not for _her_ , saved him for _me_ , saved him for himself, not me, not mine, not gay, not together, never together, shouldn't have come _back_ \--"

" _ **SHERLOCK!**_ "


	2. Doctor Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John speaks, and Sherlock listens in mute awe. Well well well, how the turntables~

Sherlock drifts and dreams and when he finally manages to pry his gummy eyes open, what he sees only serves to further disorient him. He’s in his old bedroom but there are wires and tubes trailing away from him and the unfortunately familiar peep of a heart monitor nearby. Every bit of him is in pain, but it’s more soreness than the slashed and stabbed feeling he was expecting, and his back is no longer a mass of raw fire. And oh…John is there, (John, John, _John_ ) looking ridiculously normal (home) slouched in a chair and frowning at something on his phone.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose, cracks open his jaw, twitches his index finger. He feels like a old toy, missing parts, rusted to near immobility, and laying forgotten in the weeds. An attempt is made to call ~~his friend’s~~ ~~his flatmate’s~~ John’s name, but only a faint rasp is produced. It’s enough to catch the other man’s attention, however, and Sherlock steels himself as dark blue eyes flicker upwards.

“Finally,” John sighs, and pockets his phone.

Sherlock blinks, spiraling thoughts and emotions jolted off to the side, leaving him only puzzled for a moment. John looking unperturbed but for some mild impatience is not one of the potential outcomes he's considered. (Fever dream? Structural damage to the Mind Palace? Alternate universe?)

“Here, let’s get you sat up a bit and I’ll get you some water. Your mouth’s probably all cotton and crust.” John is competent and calm, supporting him this way and that and tucking extra pillows behind his back (prickle of stitches, the dullness of thick dressings and the pull of adhesive tape, an unpleasant tightness and itching from wounds already closed and drying). John flicks the IV line, taps thoughtfully at the monitor, and then sits on the edge of the bed, leaning over to pick up a glass that’s sitting ready on the bedside table.

“Careful; you’re probably too weak to hold it just yet,” John cautions, wrapping Sherlock’s hands around the glass (cool but not cold, too much condensation, the ice melted because John had miscalculated when Sherlock would wake up, warm hands, warm warm warm _alive_ , real, not a dream) and guiding him to drink.

Sherlock sips, flinches at the cool water, winces when he finally remembers how to swallow. He’s feeling so much better (healthier, cleaner, not teetering so close to the brink of death) than he ought to but this doesn’t mean any part of him feels _good_. And he’s so piteously confused and tired and sad but also grateful and amazed and glad. He feels horrifically close to an unpardonable outburst of sentiment, except that he simply doesn’t have the energy to even get started.

John’s unwavering gaze, too, is only adding to the unreality of the situation. Sherlock can’t bring himself to meet those long looks head on just yet, too fearful to even glance much at John at all. Too afraid of what he might glean from the man’s hair and skin, shoulders and clothes and cuticles.

(Dating? Engaged? Married?)

“Right, here’s what’s going to happen,” John declares, pulling the glass away when Sherlock turns his head slightly from the next offered sip. “I’m going to give you a very brief update on the past few weeks–

(Weeks?!)

–and then you are going to pass back out. When you wake up, we’ll see if you can handle some broth, and then we’ll start your recovery in earnest. We can talk more after you’re stronger.”

Sherlock can only blink. He’s in no shape to argue. Probably couldn’t even get any of the words out. John adjusts a pillow and pulls the coverlet up higher, and then pins Sherlock to the bed with a glare.

“ _Two years_ , Sherlock, and then you apparently decided that the best way to come back from the dead was to interrupt one of my dates as if you’d only been gone two hours. Not to mention you were held together with not much more than willpower and some manky catgut, and half out of your mind with a fever.”

(Ah. Decisions made on the downslope of a two-year suicide mission by a malnourished torture victim riddled with infection and PTSD are, apparently, not the the most reliable.)

“Mycroft showed up just as you were wheeled into surgery. He gave me a file and power of attorney over you. I gave him a black eye.”

Sherlock’s still too stiff for his jaw to drop, but he does manage to throw his eyebrows ceiling-ward. He wonders if there's any footage that Mycroft hasn't had destroyed.

“Took them four days just to stabilize you, and then as soon as you’d gain any ground you’d piss it away with escape attempts while screaming in German or something. I sedated you just a hair shy of coma and later checked you out AMA to bring you home. Mycroft wanted to set you up in some private hospital but I just flipped him two and reminded him that he wasn’t your official next of kin anymore.”

Sherlock suddenly becomes religious, as he feels what must be his soul attempting to ascend out of his body. As soon as he is recovered, he is going to build a shrine, no, a temple, and dedicate it to the worship of one John Hamish Watson.

“Your wounds are granulating well and you’ve been fever free for three days straight, so I brought you out of sedation,” John continues, and then grabs Sherlock’s chin, gently but firmly. Even as he focuses in on those long-lost, well-loved eyes, Sherlock suddenly notices the smooth, steady stream of words and realizes that John’s been practicing this speech for days and days, probably as he sat by Sherlock’s bed and waited and watched and wondered.

His duties as High Priest at the temple will include a lot of self-flagellation.

“Now listen, you madman," John says sternly. "I am your doctor. You are my patient. You will do exactly as I say or I will give you to Mycroft and let him surround you with nurses and therapists. Am I understood?”

Sherlock wants to salute. To burst into tears. To kiss him.

He nods once.

“And when you’re well, we can talk about everything else…” John falters here, just for a moment, but only needs one deep breath to recover. “We can talk about what happened. The things you did to keep us safe. And everything else that we are to each other.”


	3. Doctor and Patient

Now that he's awoken again, Sherlock wants to stay that way, but just as John predicted (ordered, yes Doctor, yes _Sir_ ), Sherlock fades out soon after their conversation. Nor does he manage to stay awake for more than an hour or so at a time for another few days, much to his frustration. The painkillers John is adding to his IV line are keeping him comfortable, but also making him dozy on top of the fatigue he's still battling.

It's like reverse napping; he sleeps for long stretches and then catches a brief taste of lucidity before falling back into unconsciousness. In the first of these intervals he's fed a cup of watered down, low sodium, fat free chicken broth. Sherlock wrinkles his nose at being told the menu, but once the warm liquid washes over his tongue he hums in amazement and pleasure.

"Why is this the most delicious thing I've ever had?" he asks plaintively, and John snorts.

"You've been dining intravenously, Sherlock, and living on God only knows what before that. I could've given you a stale communion wafer and your mouth would've watered."

"When _do_ I get solids?" he asks, honestly curious. His teeth feel loose in his jaw, and the broth is a bloom of warmth in his belly, reminding him that there are other creature comforts to be had. He's been rough on his transport these past few years (all his adult life, to be perfectly honest). Showing it a little gratitude and care for once might not come amiss.

"When I say so," his doctor says firmly, and that's that.

His doctor.

They're doctor and patient and nothing else for now, and it's both excruciatingly painful and a profound relief. Establishing such restrictive boundaries highlights everything they've lost (everything he sacrificed, hoping to save it) but also makes it very clear where the safe zones are between them. With everything they've not yet had a chance to say to each other, it's actually reassuring to live between buffers and bumpers and rules for once, unwary of triggering an accusation or acrimonious reproach.

He suffers through some exercises John has prescribed in order to keep his limbs and ligaments limber, has a catheter he hadn't even realized was there removed, and dutifully memorizes the Manoski and Bristol rating scales to assist in charting his recovery. The patient's good behavior is rewarded by the attending physician with a cup of tea (which Sherlock suspects is decaffeinated but thoroughly enjoys all the same), a perfunctory trim with an electric shaver, a sponge bath which he would have rather skipped, and a dry shampoo and thorough brushing-out that more than makes up for the cool and clinical bath.

The detective could have been stroppy and selfish and demanding and dangerous, and the blogger would have given back just as good as he got. Friends could have invaded each other's personal space and flatmates could have declared war on each other's habits and hangups. But they are too wounded and weary just now to bear what had passed for normalcy between them.

He accepts it like he accepts that he can only have clear liquids, mashed fruits, and overcooked rice right now; it is a temporary condition brought on by his poor health. As John said, "more" is for when he's stronger, both body and mind. It motivates him to be as ideal a patient as possible. When he starts to yearn for activity and input, he quells the urge to complain by imagining getting out of bed without wincing and twinging, showering and shaving and suiting up, and then going to Angelo's for carbonara and a glass of Picpoul de Pinet, with John smiling up at him along the way.

He doesn't know if the vision will ever be brought to life, but it's a pleasant method of self-discipline.

He prides himself on his maturity and self-control for five days, and then realizes that this unusual patience was only a product of the fatigue he's experiencing after two years operating at critical threat level, and more damage to his transport - both chronic and acute - than any one person could reasonably expect to survive. Weeks of chemically enforced and emotionally manipulated bedrest and the near-constant attendance of a hypervigilant physician have done wonders for the outright damage and nerve pain, but the bulk of his energy is being spent on continuing to heal, and he simply hasn't had anything in reserve to spend on fidgeting.

As his condition improves, so does the amount of energy he has to expend, and one afternoon he wakes up, idly picks at some of the surgical tape on his arm, and realizes with chagrin that he is very, very bored.

Damn.

He taps out a Paganini caprice on the coverlet a quasi presto and considers his options. John is not in the room, but can be heard puttering around in the kitchen, so for obvious reasons, attempting to roam around the flat is out. And while he's itching for something to occupy himself with, Sherlock is also not unaware of the positive effect his meek obedience has been having on John's mood. The doctor's insistence on quick, honest answers to all of his patient care questions have also left their mark in turn. Even if he were to successfully get out of bed, snoop around, and tuck himself back in none the worse for wear and John none the wiser, Sherlock finds himself uneasy at the idea of lying at the next patient interview, whether directly or through omission.

Happily, he realizes that he can still run his mind through its paces even if his body is confined to bed. All of John's strictures have been regarding physical overexertion, not mental, after all. Sherlock examines this loophole from all angles. Concluding with a satisfied nod that it's got quite a comfortable margin of safety, he then gathers up observations that he hadn't been consciously collecting but knows he's made all the same, and begins doing some maintenance on his Mind Palace.


	4. Better than Christmas

When he shuts the doors to his Mind Palace and opens his eyes, it's with an unexpected weariness, as if the work he'd done had made use of his muscles as well as his memory. He's actually tempted to let his eyelids slip shut again so that he can resume napping, but John is sitting by the bed, forearms resting on his knees, hands clasped, and steely blue eyes fixed on Sherlock's face.

It's a look that makes him want to straighten up, throw his shoulders back, and smooth any wrinkles out of his vest. He settles for gingerly sitting forward from his squashed pillow nest and clearing his throat.

"Pain?" John asks, sitting up a bit as well.

"Still a two," Sherlock replies, glad of an easy question. "Nociceptive, except for my shoulder, but even there I feel improved. I have fewer flare-ups, even though there's no improvement in my range of motion."

John nods, and Sherlock is hard pressed to read much from his expression. Not that he's trying; John would know if he slipped into deduction mode, and though he hasn't tested the theory as of yet he's certain it would make John angry.

They're not there yet. Sherlock's not home yet. (Soon? Some day? Never?)

The doctor leans over to pick up the med kit on the floor before standing, and with a soft breath of relief, Sherlock begins squirming out of his garment. Just a routine check, then. He deliberately tries not to suss out the reason for the stern look upon the other man's face, not wanting to risk irritating his physician with inattention.

As his wounds continue to heal, more and more dressings are thrown away but not replaced, and Sherlock keeps a pleased tally as the days go by. The regular plasters, gauze squares, and protective films must have been permanently peeled away while he'd been sedated, and now he only has a few silicone sheets taped across the burns on his back.

Burns on top of whip-marks laid over lacerations criss-crossed with abrasions. He doesn't know exactly what his naked form looks like from behind, but he can see John's expression (upset, angry, nauseated...disgust?) every time he walks away with handfuls of silver-slick gel sheets destined for the biohazard bin.

Today, John spends a bit longer than usual examining the scars once they're exposed to warm air and lamplight. Sherlock closes his eyes and tracks the gentle, probing presses circling the freshest scar tissue. The fingers seem to be tracing and testing each and every millimeter of damaged skin tonight. Sherlock is pleased to note that there's none of the swollen soreness of an infected wound, and that John's fingers feel warm instead of comparatively cool the way they would against feverish flesh.

The examination ends, and Sherlock raises his eyebrows when instead of applying fresh gel sheets, John instead holds gauze pads against his skin, and rather than affixing them with medical tape, overlaps squares of protective film over them, as if there were rows of intravenous catheters on Sherlock's back.

Protecting the newly healed flesh from friction and moisture.

(Oh! Oh!! Oh God yes.)

John scoops up Sherlock's discarded vest and gives his patient a lopsided smile.

"Feel up to taking a shower?"

" _Please_ ," Sherlock begs, the word bursting out of him before he can stop himself. Suddenly he wants nothing more in the world than a steady stream of hot water to stand under and the feel of real soap bubbles in his hands. He's already pushing the coverlet back when John stops him.

"Hold on, you can't just jump out of the bed and into the tub," John says firmly. He's smiling but still it's more a command than a teasing scold, and Sherlock settles, half chastened, half champing at the bit. "Let me get a few things ready, and then I'll come back and help you up."

Sherlock nods, then listens and fidgets, more delighted than he thought possible at this very simple next step in his recovery. The offer of a proper wash seems like a door thrown open; just a few feet of space in and of itself but promising an entire world more. If he can get up - with assistance - and take a shower, that means no more round-the-clock bedrest. No more bedpans, no more getting rolled this way and that to avoid bedsores, no more being manipulated through endless repetitions of passive exercises and getting wiped down with as little interaction as if he was still unconscious.

Even righteously angry John or deeply disappointed John (well, maybe) is preferable to impersonal John.

More physical exertion means increased caloric intake, too. He'll still need plenty of rest, but when he wakes up, he can _get_ up, maybe have a fried egg with his toast and tea, or a roast drumstick or two instead of shredded chicken in his rice and broth, sit in his chair and actually use the loo.

He thinks about the mirror, and looking into it, and then turns back to thoughts of simple pleasures previously taken for granted.

He can wear _clothes_. Having stripped off his top, Sherlock is quite naked now. The bedding keeps his legs warm and he's got vests and lap blankets for his upper body. With no visitors except for one man, and that one needing frequent access to all the damaged bits of him, pyjama bottoms and pants have been a needless luxury and a nuisance more than anything. And if he sometimes wishes to cover up a bit more, for even the illusion of privacy and dignity, well, he's gotten out of the habit of asking for things and expecting that he'll get them.

A bit of clanging and cursing draws his attention to the doorway, and when John reappears, he stops a moment and then chuckles.

"You look like a kid waiting for Father Christmas."

"I have never in my life been _this_ excited for Christmas," Sherlock replies, solemn and serious. He feels breathless but also like shouting for joy at John's spontaneous laugh.

Doctor and patient, he reminds himself. Don't misstep, not now. Don't presume.

His desperation for a proper washing-up has calmed but not abated, and it helps to have that to focus on as John steadies him, slips an arm around his bare waist, presses up against him from shoulder to hip to knee, manacles a wrist in his own warm hand, and insists on a slow, steady pace that allows them the maximum margin of safety as Sherlock makes his way to the tub. He's really not so weak and wobbly as to make all this caution necessary, but John is in no mood to take chances, it seems, and Sherlock doesn't dare to protest lest he be turned around and sent back to bed instead.

There's a metal and plastic chair in the tub being rained on by the shower head, and a little space heater in the far corner making the steamy room even stuffier. He knows he'll be glad of the warmth as soon as he's wet, however, and appreciates the setup.

To his surprise and gratitude and slight consternation, John does not leave him to shower in peace and solitude. Sherlock is handed a sudsy loofah which he immediately puts to work, sighing happily at the scratch of synthetic fibers and the scent of expensive bath gel. He's been kept scrupulously clean since his return, but he still needs to scrub a layer or three of skin off before he'll feel properly refreshed.

Standing just outside the tub, John gets to work on every bit of Sherlock that can't be easily reached, which ends up being most of him. Even the short walk from bed to bath has taken its toll, and the exercises he's been participating in have kept him limber but not done anything toward regaining muscle tone. Sherlock finds that he can wash his arms, torso, groin, and upper thighs - with small breaks in which to rest - but that getting a foot up to scrub at will take too much exertion.

John puts a steadying hand on his chest as he carefully swipes a soft washcloth over Sherlock's newly healed back, keeps an arm around his waist as Sherlock stands to allow access to his backside, and sits half-in and half-out of the tub so that he can set Sherlock's foot on one knee while he scrubs at it. The doctor is nearly as soaked through as his patient by the time he's done with the bath gel and ready to move on to shampoo. Sherlock sits, eyes closed, grateful for the excuse to shut out the temptation to look and see and draw conclusions.

(Soon?)


	5. Attendant, Stylist, and Friend

Once he's patted dry and deodorized and his dressings deemed intact, Sherlock laboriously climbs into pants and pyjamas and lets John wrap him in a robe and two pairs of socks as well. He begins perspiring a bit, but decides it's better than risking a chill or muscle cramps.

(Or accusations of ingratitude.)

John finishes off the grooming session by seating Sherlock on the toilet for another quick shave with the electric razor. And then, with all the confidence of a man with naturally straight hair always kept short, he gives Sherlock a thorough blow-dry and brushing out. John's expression is confused and alarmed when he steps back to survey the ruination, and soon both men are snickering.

"Well...bollocks," John says helplessly. "Where'd I go wrong, exactly?"

"It's best not to brush curls. It make them all...well," Sherlock waves a hand at the frizzy pompom that his head has become. "Pat and scrunch with a towel, not scrub, and then I usually finger-comb some product in and let them air dry."

"Why didn't you say something?" John asks, attempting to smooth down the mess he's made. A futile endeavor.

Sherlock shrugs uncomfortably, the giggle that was effervescing in his throat disappearing like the bubbles in a cheap sparkling wine.

"You're my doctor, not my stylist."

(You're my doctor. I'm your patient. I have to do exactly as you say or you'll give me to Mycroft. Those are the terms under which you and I operate for now, and until I know more I don't dare test the borders.)

Silence is John's only reply for a long, long while, and then he seems to shake himself out of whatever reverie he'd fallen into and attempts to repair some of the damage. Pestering Sherlock for directions and details all the while, he damps the frizz back down a bit, then a bit more, then carefully finger combs mousse in, doling the stuff out in over-cautious, walnut-sized blobs. Sherlock is still a mess once John is finished, but it's a great improvement over the dandelion clock look he'd been modeling nearly an hour earlier.

The somewhat awkward air is escaped by John offering Sherlock a choice of where to move to next. Thoroughly sick of his own room by this point, Sherlock immediately pleads for anywhere at all other than his bed, and rejoices when he's told he can sit on the couch for the rest of the day. John sets him up with a nest of what seems to be every pillow and cushion belonging to Baker Street and then disappears into the kitchen. While John fusses with the kettle, Sherlock greedily drinks the room in; differences, additions, removals, and everything that's remained the same.

John returns with two mugs, one of which Sherlock eagerly takes. He's not yet so recovered nor grown enough accustomed to being back in the UK to be blasé about a proper cup of English Breakfast, not to mention the added luxury of being able to close his eyes and focus on the scent and warmth.

John settles into the other end of the couch - the better to keep an eye on him, perhaps - dragging the afghan down with his free hand and flipping a corner over Sherlock's legs. The already well-wrapped patient draws breath to protest that he'll be roasted, but then John shakes out the rest of the blanket over his own knees. There's still plenty of space separating them, but somehow it strikes Sherlock as intimate, this sharing a blanket between them, and he lets the air out of his lungs in a cooling breath over his tea instead.

"How do you feel?"

Sherlock aborts the sip he was en route to and hastens to answer.

"No change from this morning. The pain is still at a two, and I was careful not to overextend my shoulder..." He trails off as he notices John shake his head. Had he misunderstood the question somehow?

"That's not..." John begins, then seems to falter into a confused silence as well. "I just meant, well, how do you feel? Asking as your friend, not your doctor."

(Friend.)

Sherlock finds that he needs a moment to re-orient his mindset. He's been two years away and then for several weeks, either unconscious or trying very hard not to think of John (John John _John_ ) as anything but his attending physician. Unfortunately his - apparently obvious - pause of surprise deepens the little wrinkle between John's brows.

"Look Sherlock," he fumbles out, awkward and hesitant and determined and courageous and oh how it makes Sherlock want to weep for how much he has loved and missed this man!

"I still am, you know," John forges on. "Your friend, I mean. Thought it didn't need saying but maybe I should've done. I'm not...I'm not here just because you need a doctor. I'm..." A helpless shrug and sigh, and then,

"I'm _here_ ," John insists, emphasizing this with clenched fists and piercing eye contact. "Physician, friend, bodyguard, assistant, cook; whatever you need, Sherlock."

There are a thousand and one ways he wants to answer this offer, but he's completely unprepared. His defenses were destroyed, and the ones he's been building have been guarding himself against hoping too much, presuming too far, and now John has ambushed him with devotion. Sherlock's nose stings in an alarming herald of tears, and to head off both the waterworks and panic, he quips,

"Stylist?"

John barks a laugh and his whole demeanor relaxes into amusement, diffusing the tension of a moment before. He straightens up and away, unclenches his hands so he can drag them down his thighs. His shoulders drop, and the wrinkles marring his forehead scatter into laugh lines instead.

"Think I need to take a crash course in how to deal with curls first."

"I can direct you," Sherlock offers, attempting playful magnanimity. "You seem teachable."

"Ta very much," John snorts wryly, then settles into a sort of softened down version of his earlier fierce focus. "So, how do you feel?"

In a reversal of an earlier move, Sherlock takes a slow sip while he thinks over his answer.

" _Clean_. And refreshed. I feel...well, _alive_ and aware of and grateful for my body in a way that seems completely new to me. I am experiencing actual cravings for food, if you can believe it."

"Not sure I do. Craving anything in particular, then? Not sure your stomach would thank you for suddenly gorging on dim sum."

"No, certainly not." Sherlock curls himself around his cup and gives an exaggerated shudder at the havoc a rich, oily meal would wreak upon his gastrointestinal tract just now, and earns a snort from his friend. (Friend! John John _John_.) "Thinking back to my reaction to that first cup of broth you gave me, I believe I'll proceed with caution. I've been daydreaming of a well-fried egg, in point of fact, with just a bit of salt sprinkled over the whites."

"That's do-able," John agrees, looking relieved. Had he been anticipating the return of Stroppy Sherlock, and a demand for roast squab, a rich port, and a pack of Sterlings for pudding?

"Are you hungry right now?"

Sherlock sips and considers.

"Not very. This tea will keep me satisfied for now, and I'm more likely to need a nap than a snack afterwards. Reluctant as I am to admit it, that shower exhausted me."

"No surprise there, considering. Right, well, finish that, take a nap, and then I'll wake you for lunch," John replies.

The conversation seems to be over for now, as John then digs up the remote for the telly from behind a couch cushion. There are a thousand and one things Sherlock wants to say, but he is well and truly wrung out, and finishing his cuppa seems to be about the only thing he has strength for. Perhaps, if his luck holds, he'll wake up to renewed energy, a fried egg, and the chance to talk with a friend.


	6. Eggy Toast

When he wakes, it's not to the sound of something sizzling in a pan, but rather to a quiet, irregular clacking. Keeping himself still, Sherlock peels his eyes open and spots John sitting at the desk, one hand keeping his chin propped up and the other idly tapping a pen. He's frowning thoughtfully down at something, but from his slouch on the couch Sherlock can't tell what it is. After observing a bit longer without any developments, he hums and stretches as if he's just now waking up, and notes John's sudden startle and hasty shuffling of small pieces of paper. (Thick. Regular. Cardstock. Index cards?)

Interesting.

He puts the puzzle aside for the time being, however, and nods to John's suggestion of tea and toast and yes, yes, you may have an egg on your bread. Even when the other man disappears into the kitchen, Sherlock stays put on the couch instead of attempting to get a peek at the papers. John's declaration of loyalties renewed is still too fresh, too dazzlingly new, for Sherlock to do otherwise than proceed on the same plan with his heart as he is with his digestive system; with extreme caution.

He contents himself with merely getting a bit more comfortable, fluffing the pillows he's squashed into stiffness and doing some careful stretches. Once settled, he finds himself easily entertained with the glimpses he gets of the other man cooking. The peep of the electric kettle, clinks and clatters of sturdy china, and the tantalizing crackle-spit-hiss of an egg cracked into a hot pan; it's a soothing concerto of home comforts, with John the soloist humming away in the spotlight.

_First chair spatula-ist_ , Sherlock thinks to himself, and smiles at the familiar figure fussing about one room over.

In the early stages of recovering his health, Sherlock finds it easy to revel in gratitude and nostalgia. Keeping himself from attempting to see too far into the future and along the many paths of possibility is not too difficult a task, especially when he keeps his short term goals in mind; get well and have A Talk with John. Anxiety is not conducive to any aspect of his health, nor will it keep John amiable. First things first, and he can worry about all the rest when he has the strength to deal with the consequences, whatever they may be.

John has declared himself available to be Sherlock's friend and physician and many other things. But there may yet be another person who can claim John in other ways (lover, husband), and Sherlock is not yet strong enough to examine that theory deliberately, to look directly at it and let details and observations resolve and solidify.

He calls it patience, instead of fear.

The reward for staying obediently put upon the sofa is the sight of John carefully stepping out of the kitchen with a loaded tray, pausing to snort as he catches sight of Sherlock eagerly rising out of his slouch. It _does something_ to Sherlock, and he impulsively grins before letting out a plaintive whine.

" _Sustenance._ "

"Oi, I've kept you fed," John protests as he sets their lunch down on the coffee table.

"Fried protein and _salt_." His mouth is watering to a ridiculous degree.

"'S not like I'm handing you a great big basket of fish and chips. Calm down." John's tone is amused more than chiding, so Sherlock makes grabby hands at the plate coming his way and is rewarded with another huff of laughter.

The toast is unbuttered and there's little enough salt on the egg resting atop it that Sherlock could probably count the crystals if he could be arsed to wait a minute, but the first bite is still a religious experience. Once he's sunk his teeth into it, he has to close his eyes and stop everything - even chewing - to let a wave of gratitude wash over him.

He's maybe made some undignified noise, because the couch shakes with how hard John is trying not to laugh aloud.

"Mm?" he queries, peering at John through his drooped-down lashes while slowly luxuriating in the fact that his food has _texture_.

"Just...your face," John giggles, and oh how he's (dreamed of) missed that sound! Sherlock pretends offense at his face being deemed laugh-worthy, and turns away to focus on his eggy toast. Getting a lacy bit of crisp egg-edge is enough to pull his attention away from John entirely, and he sighs in gustatory ecstacy, setting off another giggle from his chef.

His appetite comes to life with a slavering roar, and during the first few bites he's actually plotting up ways to ransack the kitchen later for a tin of beans or a packet of crisps. He slows down after devouring the yolk, however, and the last two bites cost him some effort. Sherlock sets down his crumby plate with regretful relief, content for now and utterly disinterested in anything more to eat. Even his cup of tea looks too heavy and far away to bother with, and he lets it remain on the tray.

The cost of such a two year mission as he's just completed and somehow managed to survive. It seems he's been set back to factory defaults, capable of only the minimum necessities of living.

He sighs and looks up to find John watching him, an empty plate of his own on his lap and a contemplative look on his face. Sherlock blinks at realizing that he'd been so absorbed in his meal that he'd missed the opportunity to watch John tuck into his own fare. Another reminder of how much ground he's lost.

At John's inquiring quirk of the eyebrows and expectant smile, Sherlock pats his midriff and lets out a satisfied sigh.

"Thank you for the wonderful meal." It's delivered with heartfelt sincerity. Absence makes the stomach as well as the heart grow fonder. After a moment's consideration, Sherlock expands on his expression of gratitude.

"I have to thank you for...well, everything else, too. I don't believe it's an exaggeration to say that you saved my life the night I returned, and I've no doubts that you did so over and over again in the weeks following. Your dedication to my well-being is...beyond words."

Contrary to expectations, this simple - perhaps too simple - expression of gratitude etches sorrow into the lines around those beloved blue eyes.

"Sherlock, if anyone should be saying thank you, it's me, not you," John protests. He sets his plate down and takes the other as well, and reaches over as if to clasp Sherlock's hands before halting suddenly.

"Hold on a mo'," he says hastily, and heaves himself off the couch, to Sherlock's chagrin. He curls his fingers tight atop the blanket, the almost-touch prickling along the backs of his hands.

John returns almost immediately, but now his hands are busy with the bits of paper from the desk, tapping them into a neat stack, re-ordering this card and that, and giving Sherlock a rather shamefaced grin.

"I've, um...got some notes," John confesses. Sherlock eyes the cards curiously, finding them to indeed be a handful of index cards packed full of scribbles. The doctor's handwriting adheres to the adage but Sherlock can make out a few phrases beginning with "I".

"Outlines for an autobiography?" he hesitantly but lightheartedly prompts, once the silence stretches out a bit.

"No," scoffs John, but then he shrugs. "It's...well, I guess I could say that this is _my_ note."


	7. John's Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [FEELINGS COMMAND CENTER] *pushes big red PURGE button, setting off multiple alarms*

_This is my note._

A simple phrase, but loaded, for them. The breath catches in Sherlock's throat and his face must do something rather alarming, because in the next moment John is rushing to recant.

"No, no, not like that! It's not any kind of, of _goodbye_ , just, um...my reply to your note, is what I should've said." He pauses to make sure Sherlock is breathing properly again, and then shakes his head ruefully.

"Yeah, see? This is why I need the notes. Shite at talking things out in general, and just...one of the biggest regrets I had was saying all the wrong things the day you...the day at Bart's, and never having said anything I ought to've, even before the whole mess with Moriarty. When I realized I'd been given this second chance, this _miracle_ that I'd asked for, I wanted to make sure I said everything I needed to, without getting all worked up and sidetracked, or anything like that."

Sherlock ponders this over.

"That may be the best idea you've ever had," he says, nodding solemnly.

"What about becoming flatmates with a madman the day after we'd met?" John asks, grinning.

"No, that was the best idea _I'd_ ever had."

John laughs and calls him a git, and all Sherlock can do is try to keep this ridiculous amount of happiness in his chest from causing him to explode. It's the relief of recaptured joys, gratitude for homesickness being soothed, and pure and simple affection making the sight and sound of John laughing happily such a great treasure as to make the last two years worthwhile.

He'd left once, because he'd wanted to keep John alive. And as terrible as it had been, Sherlock suddenly thinks to himself that he'll gladly throw himself back into the fray this very instant if it means being able to keep John happy, just like this.

But of course, resuming his suicide mission isn't exactly an act calculated to increase the man's happiness, and _that_ is likely sketched out on the notecards. He's suddenly both impatient and reluctant to get acquainted with the contents.

"So," Sherlock says with a tentative nod at the tidy stack. "Am I meant to read those, or listen?"

"Listen, I think. It'll be a bit awkward, me just sitting here reading aloud, but I feel like this is something I need to say, and to your face. Acknowledging it all, I guess. Just giving them to you to read feels...dunno, like cheating, somehow."

Sherlock nods acquiescence, and after a bit of throat-clearing, a steadying exhale, and several nervous glances, John begins.

"After you jumped, I was heartbroken. And when you returned, after the first shock was over I felt betrayed. When I realized that you've been alive all along, I jumped to conclusions, and they couldn't have been more wrong. Although I'd have given anything for you not to have suffered so badly, in a way I'm glad you were so out of it at first. It spared you my initial reactions, and me the shame I would have felt later on, when I found out the truth.

As I read through the file that Mycroft gave me, my feelings of betrayal changed to understanding and regret and gratitude. I still wish that you could have found a way to take me along so that I could have helped you, or that you'd at least read me into your plan so that I could have been spared some of the pain, but I understand your reasons for doing what you did. It is what it is, and I can accept it now.

Mainly what I'm left with is pain on your behalf, for everything you shouldered and suffered all on your own. I am so sorry, Sherlock."

It's ridiculous and painful and stilted and the most beautiful thing Sherlock's ever experienced. John keeps his eyes fixed on his cards for the most part, only glancing up now and then as if to confirm that his audience is still attentive. As if anything could distract Sherlock away from John's words. The voice that's so often and easily switched between charming and commanding now wavers between choked-up emotion and an awkward monotone. The speech is speckled with fierce emphasis on this word and that phrase, and his heart thuds painfully at each instance. Sherlock barely blinks, forgets to breath, drinks in every syllable and sigh like a parched man at an oasis.

"I also want to apologize, not just say that I grieve for your sake. I want you to know that I never stopped regretting that one of the last things I said to you was that you were a machine. I hope you knew even then that I didn't mean it and never believed it. A robot would never endure what you have to keep its friends safe. A sociopath wouldn't _have_ loved ones. I never stopped believing in you, and I never will. I never _could_. Even if you'd not come back.

I am so sorry for shouting at you, and accusing you of not caring. You care so much. Almost too much. I am honored, and unworthy, of being one of the people you care for so wholeheartedly.

And I need to thank you for it all too. I am sorry, and I am grateful. Saying 'thank you' isn't anywhere near enough, but it's somewhere to start, and I am going to spend the rest of my life trying to express what it means to me that you were willing to sacrifice so much for my sake. Whatever support I can provide that will help you to recover from your time away is yours for the asking. Whatever I can do or say or be for you to make the rest of your life happy or not-boring or whatever you want it to be, just name it. You were and still are the most important person in my life, and I'm never going to deny it again, in word or deed.

So to sum up, I want you to know that I understand why you left, that I'm so sorry you had to leave at all, and alone on top of it, and that I'm so glad you've come back..."

John's voice, grown increasingly wobbly, breaks entirely here. Sherlock is reaching for him - trembling, breathless, on the verge of weeping himself - before he even realizes that he's moved, but is waved off with the last notecard.

"Sorry, almost done, just..."

John clears his throat, straightens up a bit, sniffs, scratches at his eye, and does all the things that a British man does when trying to play off strong emotion as merely a touch of hay fever. Across the sofa, Sherlock is nearly crawling out of his own skin, bursting with questions, unable to trust his own voice to ask any of them, and terrified of what the answers might be.

(The rest of my life.)

(The rest of your life.)

(The most important person.)

( ~~What about the blonde in the lavender gown?~~ )

"I'm so glad you've come back," John repeats, rusty and snuffling and wearing a heartbreaking smile. "I want you to know that you are my best friend, the best person I know, that you have the greatest heart and the most brilliant mind, and that I love you."

(I love you.)

(I love you.)

(I love you.)

It's too much.

It's everything he couldn't have ever imagined receiving, wouldn't have dared to even dream of, overloading his heart and mind both. It's _good_ , of course it's good; it's wonderful and perfect and a miracle but like all miracles it's more than mere mortal frame was designed to handle. Sherlock's next breath escapes as a strangled sob and John - healer, protector, _friend_ \- scoots closer and puts his arms around him, keeps him from shattering apart.

They cling to each other, John like he's been waiting all his life for this and Sherlock like he'll die if he lets go. They rock together, or perhaps they're rocking each other, trying to impart comfort and understanding and let their bodies speak to each other now that their voices have failed. They both make unconscious little shifts and adjustments until John's managed to burrow halfway under the rumpled pile of blankets and pillows, and Sherlock is able to wriggle one foot free and hook it around the first ankle he comes across. John murmurs unintelligibly and Sherlock cries into his shoulder.

Years upon years of repressed emotion break free in a violent, unplanned and uncoordinated rush, and he might as well attempt to dam up the Thames with a spoon as stop the tears from flowing. As long as he'd been alone and beset on all sides with danger both real and theoretical, there'd been plenty of motivation to keep himself walled up and hidden away. It had been logical and even natural to act like the sociopath he'd billed himself as once upon a time. But now, back home at Baker Street, surrounded with dearly missed comforts, cared for and tended to and fed, this last act of kindness from the one person he'd missed most obliterates all of his defenses.

Sherlock weeps with all the abandon of a small child, pouring out pent up emotion at full bore until finally, finally the flood dwindles to a trickle and then to little drips, and he is utterly emptied out. He sighs and hiccups and shudders in John's arms, goes limp, and falls asleep so quickly it's like a gentle faint.

He is hollowed out, made whole, and held safe.


	8. Sentimentality and Genius

Lucidity returns much more slowly than unconsciousness had overtaken him. Sleep, now that it has him at a disadvantage, seems to be taking every opportunity possible to drag him under and hold him down, and releases him with reluctance at times as if in complaint at not having had him for long enough yet. He's not entirely an unwilling hostage, at that. His body is heavy, as if his blood and bones have been replaced with buckshot and lead piping, and the signals his brain is receiving are soothing things like _warmth_ and _soft_ and _safe_. Nothing alarming, nothing urgent.

And yet there's a sense of need subtly but surely urging him awake.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose, not quite reacquainted enough with his limbs yet to actually rub at his face. Ugh. He feels crusty. A turn into the pillow to snuffle while making vague grumbling noises yields better results, and then he sighs and wearily cracks open his eyes. Hm. Not in bed. Shouldn't he be in bed? He stares absently at John's inquisitive face until his brain finally comes back online.

"Good morning, again," John quips, before Sherlock can do much more than widen his eyes and draw in a deep breath. "Though we're well into the afternoon, now. How are you feeling?"

A physician's care and a friend's concern.

(I love you.)

Sherlock takes stock both physically and mentally - his emotional status is pushed hastily aside for now, too tangled and messy to sort out at a moment's notice - while raising himself up to a less spinally taxing position. John is perched near him; no longer pressed close, but not so far away as he'd been directly after the shower, either.

"Well. Well-rested, what with having slept through the bulk of the day," Sherlock eventually determines, and then glances up hesitantly. Their toast and talk seem like centuries ago, though he can't have been asleep for much more than an hour.

"A bit..." Sherlock begins, and gets all the more fussed when he can't come up with a proper description of how he feels. Every word he can think of - discomposed, unsettled, uncertain - sounds too negative for the gift he was given, and finally he settles on a tentative "...off balance?"

This admission puts John in much the same state, and Sherlock regrets the loss of eye contact as the other man coughs and rubs at his neck, as if it's a muscle twinge that's bothering him instead of embarrassment. It's more a reflex than a retreat, however, and soon enough John's gaze is fixed on him again, steady and sure. The brave soldier.

"Well, maybe all that was a bit heavy for afters, yeah?" John says, levity forced but not unnatural, and at his vague gesture Sherlock notices the notecards stacked neatly on the coffee table. No clue, no evidence, no carefully concealed motive has ever looked so enticing. His hand twitches toward them before he can stop himself.

"May I have them?" he asks on impulse, "To keep, I mean." It's sentimentality at its most puerile. He can practically hear Mycroft's eyebrow twitching, almost feel that scornful gaze heavy upon his neck. This is one step above asking John to nip down to the local florist's for rose petals to be pressed and dried and used as a fragrant lining for the teak keepsake box that the notecards will be enthroned in.

He doesn't care.

Happily, neither does John.

"Yeah, yeah of course." John puts action to word and sweeps them off the table to deposit them in Sherlock's waiting palm.

Sherlock is surprised at how light they are before realizing he's expecting physical weight equal to the emotional impact they contain. The impulse to hold them carefully collides with the desire to crush them tight, and both get tangled up in a sudden urge to literally consume them. In this shaken-up state, Sherlock trusts himself not one bit to speak clearly and coherently, but he cannot say _nothing_ in response to John's heart laid bare before him.

But what to say first? What to say at all? And most importantly, what _not_ to say?

(I'm sorry.)

(Thank you.)

(I love you too.)

(...though, how exactly do you mean, when you say you love me? As a friend? Like the brother you don't have, or a brother in arms? Or like your sister; also an addict and a pain in your arse? If we have to sit close together, will you cross your arms, or put one of them around my shoulders? Or can we hide our tangled fingers together in the space between our thighs? Would you rest your hand on my knee and let me cover it with mine? Would you hold my hand outside the flat, where people could see? Huddled in a dark alley, chasing after a kidnapper, walking through the park? Would you sit with me at Angelo's with a candle on the table and a ring box in your hand?)

( ~~Who is she?~~ )

Sherlock smooths one thumb over the whorls and slashes of John's writing and then, because he is a genius, has a brilliant idea.

"Do you have any more?" he asks, glancing up and then craning his neck to look over at the desk. "They come in packs of a hundred, don't they? Could I? Would you mind, if I...? Would it be an appropriate method? This is not my forte either, as you well know, and as you said yourself, I need to say everything that I need to say."

John, bless him, understands all this disjointed babble, and Sherlock is soon equipped with a pen, some blank index cards, and the Royal Horticultural Society's A to Z Encyclopedia of Garden Plants to use as an impromptu writing desk. But writing with John _right there_ soon proves a daunting task. And of course, irritably snapping at John to take his noisy thinking and breathing and _being_ somewhere where he won't be so in the way is equally outside the realm of possibility. Sherlock wonders at himself for ever treating his friend and his partner and his blogger and his doctor and his very own Captain John Hamish Watson, MD so contemptuously.

Wondering turns into gazing wonderingly. John looks away from his book or laptop or show a few times, giving Sherlock brief episodes of tachycardia with self-conscious but overwhelmingly fond smiles. Once he offers to skive off if his presence is impeding Sherlock's note-writing, but at the violent head-shake he receives, John's smile widens and he goes back to pecking away at his keyboard. Sherlock watches, and wonders, and lets the tightness in his chest grow until he feels like he has to let it out or burst, and then writes it down.

_I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance; it may take me a bit to get the next chapter posted. I'm writing three chapters at once, in a way, and if I scrap a bit in chapter 11, I end up having to re-write a good bit of chapter 9, interconnected as they're turning out to be. To avoid post-posting edits, I'm going to wait until chapter 11 is at least fleshed out in a satisfactory manner before posting chapter 9.


	9. It was You, John Watson

_I love you._

He gazes in stupefaction at having written the words down. At having the occasion to do so. The temerity. The hope. And then he frowns because the phrase is so pitiful, so worn out compared to what it's meant to convey. He gnaws at his bottom lip a while, and then expands on his opening sentence.

_I do not write "I love you too" because however you meant your "I love you", mine must be able to stand alone, on its own, if need be. I love you. Regardless of how you love me. Regardless of how you will react._

Sherlock composes in his Mind Palace, writes carefully, scribbles frantically, jots down words in a jumbled mess before picking up one and examining it critically, sweeps away discarded prose with an impatient wave, and throws insufficient phrases over his shoulder one after another. He hops out for a few minutes now and then, consulting John's precious notes or stopping to pen a sentence that has survived the editing process.

_Mycroft gave you a copy of the Project Pompilid folder, and as redacted and reduced as it must be I trust that you have been made familiar with everything that I did, and everything that was done to me. What I believe I need to elaborate on is why I took on the mission, and what you may not understand at all is how I managed to return._

_The encounter at the pool, you the fifth pip; it forced me to imagine losing you. That moment, not the date in the file, is when I truly embraced my role. Mycroft did not bribe me, Moriarty did not seduce me, and the Work did not lure me. In point of fact I left the Work behind, too, when I left London. The interest of a puzzle, the thrill of a chase, the triumph of a success; I felt only faint echoes of it while I was on this mission and knew from the start that it would be so. I had no network, no support structures, no resources to call upon or favors to call in, nothing at all that I had grown familiar with, reliant upon, or attached to. Most importantly, I did not have you._

_All I had were fear and hope - fear of facing a world that you no longer inhabited and hope of one day being welcomed back to your side - and I alchemized them into a determination to succeed. Fear gave me patience and resilience, took the place of sleep and sustenance, and kept me clean and disciplined._

_Hope allowed me to endure, when all other resources failed._

_Now that all is over I can admit how desperately I wanted you there with me. I did not allow myself to consider working you into the mission while it was active, too fearful of giving in to temptation. Even letting you know what I planned would have endangered you, and my primary, almost sole motivation was your safety. Moreover, it would have been cruel to give you hope, considering the danger._

_Perhaps you would have kept me safe, made me more efficient, lightened and even enjoyed sharing my burdens. Perhaps we would have both died, screaming each other's names. I couldn't face the risk, and even now I would not change the past if I could. I am sorry, however, for the pain I caused you. No apologies are necessary on your side; the debt is greater on mine._

_I wrote on the first card that I love you. Regardless of how you love me. Regardless of how you will react. And perhaps that was the problem; I had only thought of how I could not bear your death. I did not give enough consideration to how you would bear mine. I was selfish, and called it self-sacrifice._

_I am also a coward and a liar and an addict and now a felon and fugitive among all my other failings. I read the card with your praises over and over and can scarcely comprehend the words. I fail to understand how you can know me so well and yet admire and praise and care for me. I do not understand...but I can have faith. You hold me to be a good person with a great heart and mind, you honor me with the title of most important person in your life - and please never doubt that you hold that same place in mine - and my mission now will be to live up to your belief in me._

_You are correct; I do care. For all that I have taken advantage of your credulity in the past I am unspeakably grateful that you never swallowed my lie of being a high-functioning sociopath. Where would I have found the courage to write this note, if I feared you would doubt the veracity of its contents?_

_And if I care too much, it is because of you. I was born with a heart, and the capability of and capacity for emotion, but it was you who forced me to acknowledge - to own - that I can and do love. I would have jumped for Mrs. Hudson alone. Lestrade as well. Molly. My parents. Mycroft, though I swear you to secrecy on this point. But I would have let them all think me dead and gone, and accepted that I could see them no more. You were the only one who could have sustained me with the mere thought of seeing you once more, kept me on target until the very end, and brought me back to London. The successful completion of Project Pompilid was a near-impossible outcome that only one factor made attainable._

_It was you, John Watson; you kept me alive._

Here he stops, and sets down the pen. He rubs his hand, surprised to find that he's gone on somewhat of a sentimental spree toward the end, spending less time carefully composing and instead, letting the ink put form to the message as it welled up and out of his heart.

Hesitation interrupted the flow, and now he gnaws on his lower lip, staring anxiously at the next blank line. He has one part of John's note to address still, and here his mind is failing him. He doesn't have any experience on which to base deductions, their current situation is unprecented and unexpected and completely out of the realm of abductive reasoning, and he doesn't have enough data with which to do any inducing. The reasonable fall-back plan is to 'follow his heart' and 'trust his gut', but ironically that's what he'd relied on John to provide during that too-brief golden period before Moriarty's mad games. On his own, Sherlock is woefully unequipped, inexperienced, and afraid.

Baby steps, he reminds himself, and picks up the pen again.

_And now, here we are again at Baker Street, and you've offered me everything and anything, without hesitation or caveat. Even for an adrenaline junkie, John, this is dangerous. Eighty-three requests immediately spring to mind. I got up to one hundred twenty by the time I finished writing the previous sentence. But the memory of how my selfishness hurt you so terribly is fresh in my mind, as is the knowledge that temperance, not immoderacy, is my doctor's standing order. And only a fool ignores his doctor, correct?_

_With that in mind, here is my first request;_

In a contradictory fit, Sherlock finds himself seized with the urge to ask for something absolutely outrageous, just to see how far and wide John's "whatever" stretches. (Let's move to France tomorrow; we'll grow lavender and keep bees and raise chickens, and you have to kiss me good morning and good night every day until one of us dies of old age. I'll gather honey and learn to make scones, and if I get stroppy you can make me eggy toast and thus remind me that you are to be appreciated.) With a frown and huff, he forces himself to take the self-prescribed smallest of small steps, promising himself more if only he'll be patient.

(Don't rush, don't ruin this, don't be stupid and selfish and so _Sherlock_. It's over, I'm home, there's hope, there's reason to hope, and there's _time_. The rest of his life. The rest of my life. He promised, he promised, he promised.)

_Tell me where the boundaries are. I know there are things you cannot do because you are, after all, only human. I also know that there are things you will not do, because you are John Watson, and some things simply aren't in your nature. So tell me where the lines are, so that I can try to stay inside them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pompilidae is the family name of the spider wasp. They are solitary and as their nickname suggests, are known for hunting and killing spiders. Do not check out the spider wasp wiki. It is chock-a-block with nightmare fuel.


	10. Deductive Dash

Sherlock sits back with a sigh and surveys the messy sprawl of notecards with tired, slightly sweaty satisfaction. He hasn't moved from the couch but it was still exertion of a sort, and he's not exactly in top form. Take it all in all, his note feels more solid than not, however, especially given the fact that this is his first foray as an adult into uttermost honesty and emotional vulnerability. He's congratulating himself quite heartily on this bold essay into uncharted territory when the muted snap of a laptop being shut startles him out of his reverie.

"All done?" John's eyes are flicking curiously between the cards and Sherlock's slump back into the pillows.

Just as he automatically begins to hum and nod an affirmative, it hits him that after Step One: Write on Notecards comes Step Two: Read Notecards Aloud to John. He turns the mm-hm into an nuh-uh halfway through and winces as it comes out in an unintelligible squeak.

"Er...not done?" John amends, confused by the mangled vocable. "Which is completely fine; it took me weeks to put my--"

"Not...ready," Sherlock strangles out, opting for a hasty half-truth served with a side of misdirection. Even this little dishonesty sits uncomfortably in his chest, however. The habit of simple honesty has had time enough to sink in, and on top of this, John's wondrous, precious, miraculous note seems to lie heavy on his lap now, judging him severely for repaying the gift with such a craven spirit.

_My mission now will be to live up to your belief in me._

"I'm not ready," he clarifies, small voiced and shamefaced. Where had John found the courage to read his beautiful note aloud? Sherlock cannot even bring himself to talk about it without squirming. "The...the note is finished, but I..."

John's quick hop-bounce across the sofa catches him by surprise, and the rest of his confession falls, ricochets off a cushion, and rolls away. Hands enter his view but before he can start up the fear that John means to take the decision literally out of _his_ by picking up the notecards, they circle his wrists instead. Beneath their interlocked arms, the cards are now pinned down and most of the writing covered. The emotional time bomb hasn't been disarmed, exactly, but Sherlock finds he can breathe much easier now, and gathers enough courage to look up.

"Whenever you're ready is fine," John reassures him, as soon as their eyes meet. "Now, later, or even never if you change your mind. I needed to say the things I did because...well, I needed to, and I'd hoped it would help more than it'd harm for you to hear me say them. I don't need a note back if you don't want to give one, all right?"

Sherlock stares, almost boggles, at this infinitely patient and understanding and gentle John. This communicative John. This John who so easily clasps his forearms, leans in, and maintains eye contact from a scant foot away.

(And Sherlock isn't exactly overflowing with fond nostalgia for not-his-boyfriend, I'm-not-gay, we're-not-together John Three Continents but Only One Gender Watson, but...)

"Why are you so calm and collected?" he complains, then lets his face crinkle up into a moue as John only chuckles at him. It was a serious question; the man's serenity strikes him as nearly preternatural.

(Or pharmaceutical, but John does not Do That.)

"No, don't pout," John chides, giving his arms a squeeze and then - regrettably - pulling away. "I don't know, honestly. I might still be riding the high of realizing you're alive, and come home again, especially now with you out of bed and all. But don't worry; I'm sure that as soon as you start leaving entrails all about the flat again I'll be right back to shouting at you for it."

It's almost a surreal mental image. Sherlock can't quite reconcile _that_ John and Sherlock with the two men currently occupying 221B, but before it can perturb him, he realizes what John's said.

"You're moving back in?"

It seems a momentous question, and Sherlock's sat up and wide-eyed and holding his breath, but John only quirks one eyebrow at him.

"How d'you know I'd moved out in the first place?"

"Obvious," Sherlock replies - some habits die hard indeed - and then he's off, pointing out all the details that've been acquired since he woke up and found himself reinstated at Baker Street. At first he only explains what he's deduced from John's hair and socks and abducted from the dust and placement of certain books and what-nots in his bedroom, plus some supplemental notes from this morning's foray into the bath and living room. An inference about utensils, however, segues into the quality of chicken breast - and the one egg - he's been served during his recuperation so far, and that in turn leads to his declaration that Mycroft is in charge of the shopping.

"The ingredients you've been cooking with are of much higher quality than you generally procure. Even as concerned for my health as you are, you wouldn't have splurged on Bresse chicken breasts or pullet eggs. I recognize the tea blend as being one that Mycroft favors as well. He - or one of his staff - is choosing and financing the groceries. But they're not arriving in regular deliveries.

The front door opens on a fixed schedule in the morning and at night, with a pattern of comings and going throughout the day meant to seem random. Based on footfalls, there are three, possibly four rotating teams of four agents each occupying 221A and C. Mycroft must have sent Mrs. Hudson away on some pretense; if she was aware of my return, no force on earth or pain of hip could have kept her from marching up here to scold me and make a fuss. In fact, other than you and Mycroft, the only people who know of my return are some Landmark staff and NHS workers who've no doubt been forced to sign draconian non-disclosure agreements. Well, and the agents installed downstairs.

They're disguising themselves as workpersons here to effect some extensive rennovations or repairs, judging from the noise they're making. Perhaps the mold problem in C was falsely exaggerated. In addition to providing security, they're sneaking in the shopping and whatever other supplies you request disguised as equipment and building materials. Heavy footsteps come up the stairs, then go down, quicker and lighter. Ah, and they're also sneaking out the rubbish for you. Their presence also explains the continued use of electricity and water despite Mrs. Hudson being absent, should anyone be inspired to pull utility bills.

They're not just keeping others out, however; they're also here to ensure that you and I stay inside and undetected. You make trips out to the landing, but no further, and the curtains aren't just shut; they're clipped together and tacked down. I suppose Mycroft had you casually tell your inner circle that you were off to Scotland for a conference or some such thing, and planning to turn it into an extended holiday?"

Sherlock winds down partly because he's just about done, and partly because he's gone a little hoarse.

(And perhaps, partly because he doesn't want to stumble into how John makes and receives no calls, and doesn't text often enough or with much fondness of expression. His emails, too, are numerous but short. In enough love to propose, but not to keep in touch? Or secure enough not to need to? Does Mycroft screen all his communications? John would not want to woo a woman with big brother watching. Or has she been entrusted with this secret and commissioned to help him keep up his cover story? Is she off in Scotland alone, snapping photos and sending back postcards to their mutual acquaintance? Is she dreaming of coming back on her honeymoon, to walk the shores while holding John's hand?)

(Run away with me.)


	11. Mooning about Ben Nevis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay in getting this chapter up. I deleted and rewrote it so many times that at times I had to stop and re-read previous chapters to remind myself where I'd been going with all this. *headdesk*

Catching his breath is a bit of a struggle, but a pleasant one; the mental equivalent of a runner's high, perhaps. After such a period of inactivity his stamina is nil, but finding that he can still accomplish a quick deductive dash in fine form - and most importantly, put that admiring grin on John's face - is a joy.

"Amazing. Just absolutely brilliant," John murmurs, and Sherlock could _weep_. Today is a lifetime's worth of Christmases and locked room murders all come at once. He could live the next ten hours - perhaps more, maybe even a whole day - contented with only replaying those syllables in his Mind Palace, with the notecards cradled to his chest. But John keeps talking, and he has to quickly file the new soundbyte away so that he can pay attention.

"Put all that together this morning, did you? Or have you been mind-palacing all along?"

"It's not a verb, John," Sherlock chides, but while he's trying to wave the compliment off, his cheeks prickle with a pleased flush and he cannot keep his mouth from twisting up into a smile.

"Did I get anything wrong?" he asks, trying to hustle the moment along and get back to the main question.

(Are you home? Am I?)

"Don't think so, no." John's expression gets a little far away as he thinks back over details, and Sherlock lets his gaze linger lovingly, re-mapping those familiar-yet-not features, adjusting lines and adding grey hairs to his mental archive, regretting the traces of stress and sorrow but oh so grateful that they're there to provide evidence of John's survival.

(Please come home. Please _stay_. Let me get to know every atom of you over again.)

"While you were in hospital I told Mycroft that I wanted to see your recovery through at Baker Street, and told him to take care of it. I didn't really bother myself with any of the details," John muses. "He put up a bit of a fuss about the location, but I think it was more a token protest. Either that or he realized how set I was on the idea and didn't want to have to black bag me for hitting him a second time."

They share a conspiratorial grin, and Sherlock wants to jump on every bit of furniture in the room while hollering his glee at having such a perfectly pugnacious and pugilistic protector. Or at the very least, he wishes he was strong enough that the mere thought of doing so doesn't make him want to lie down. He settles for mourning aloud that Mycroft's no doubt had all the footage destroyed, and delights in the snicker it draws from his knight in woolen armor.

"Mrs. Hudson's on holiday with an old friend, also courtesy of Mycroft. Not sure who or where actually; like I said, couldn't be arsed about the details. Spot on with the mold in C, and they're actually doing a renno, not just banging on pots to sound busy. Maybe there're some construction blokes mixed in with security, or some of the agents are handy with a hammer? Dunno, quite frankly don't care. As for me, I've had a little crisis and am off in the hills somewhere, hiking and trying to find myself or some bollocks like that."

Sherlock scrunches up his face at this ridiculous cover story. Surely Mycroft's people could have come up with something better than _that_.

"It's actually pretty believable," John says after a snort at the lemon-juice expression. He drops his gaze to the rumpled blanket and scratches at a stray bit of lint. "At least, everyone I told seemed to think so. It's been a rough couple of years, and...well, I had some thinking to do. Some time away was just what I needed, really. Only I'm wearing out the floorboards at home instead of mooning about Ben Nevis."

( _Home._ )

Sherlock wants to latch on to that one precious word and tug and dig until he's been reassured that John is indeed going to be his flatmate again, but there is a more vital point that he must address first. With one hand pressing upon the stack of John's notecards, as if to a talisman that grants courage, Sherlock reaches with his other hand and mirrors the wrist-clasp he'd been given a few minutes before.

"John," he says, and it comes out so unexpectedly choked and crumbling that he has to stop and clear his throat. Even then he sounds a wreck, but perhaps that's fitting, and as it should be.

"John I'm so sorry."

"It's all right. I understand, really. You don't have to apologize." John sandwiches the clinging fingers on his forearm with his unrestrained hand and smiles, kind and caring. But Sherlock is already shaking his head at the very first syllable, and the only reason he allows John to get the entire ridiculous, fallacious, baseless reassurance out is that there's still some mysterious obstruction clogging up his throat.

"I do," he finally forces himself to say, because John was _heartbroken_ and _betrayed_ and wished that he _could have been spared some of the pain_. Recollections of John's voice, memories of his writing on the cards; are they what's choking him?

(Sentiment, but this is not grit in the guts of his microscope; he is being crushed under a truckload of gravel. Oh John, John, _John!_ )

"I do have to," Sherlock insists. "I even wrote it down. I..."

As far as proofs go, it's not exactly something that would stand up in court. The impulse to show his writing to bolster his side of the debate is not entirely without merit, however. People tend to believe what's written down. It is a habit acquired as soon as c-a-t is taught to be synonymous with the drawing of a kitten, reinforced throughout one's school years, and subsequently bolstered and taken advantage of by the media. Sherlock has scribed his guilt onto paper; igitur verum.

And maybe it's this idea, that John will more easily believe what he reads, that makes Sherlock sweep up all his cards, hastily put them in order, and hold them up, hold them out. He has lied to John, small white lies and lies like gaping wounds oozing black bile. It makes so much more sense to let John read his explanations and confessions and promises, than to expect him to listen to it all from deceitful lips and yet receive it as gospel.

"Here," he says, his voice a rusty ghost of its usual tone and timbre. "It's all in here."


	12. Waiting

John is wide-eyed and already reaching for the notecards, but at the last moment his hands merely overlap Sherlock's fingers a bit, not taking away or taking over.

"Thought you weren't ready?"

Sherlock hesitates, because he's _not_ , he may never be. How does one _practice_ stripping themselves raw and naked and vulnerable? But John has waited long enough, hasn't he?

(Two years and change.)

The pause stretches out so far as to be taken as an answer, and sturdy hands begin to press the cards back down and withdraw, spurring the body to action even if the mind is lacking in perfect resolve and readiness.

"No, take them." Sherlock thrusts the little stack of cardstock into John's hands, pushy and insistent. "They're ready, even if I'm not, and I'm already taking the coward's way out by having you read them instead of--"

"Thank you," John interrupts, in a tone that's expressing "shut up Sherlock" much more than actual gratitude. (He's missed even that.) "And no you're not. This is fine, Sherlock. More than."

A shared look and smile and a small sigh of relief from Sherlock turns into some self-conscious fidgeting on both sides of the sofa. John is stroking the cards with his thumbs and glancing back and forth between them and their author, while said author tries to breathe evenly and occupies himself with shredding the corner of the encyclopedia-turned-writing-desk.

He's more than half-afraid that they'll soon fumble their way into an awkward dance of "are you sure" and "if you want" and similarly excruciating hesitations masquerading as courtesies, but John breaks the silence with a non-sequitur instead.

"Hungry?"

Sherlock blinks, glances at his notecards still lying in the other man's palms as if to make sure that he had in fact given them to him, and then has to think. _Is_ he hungry?

"A bit? Actually, yes," he answers in some surprise, then crinkles his eyebrows together at John. And? What of it? Are you not going to read my cards?

He might actually be gearing up toward huffiness over this thought. He'd just performed a thoracotomy on himself, reached in, tugged out his heart, and given it over to the most important person in all his life, and John is thinking about _food_? Focus, man!

"You're a little peaky," John notes, showing some unfortunately timed talent for observation. "Dunno if it's fatigue or nerves, but how about we have some dinner and watch a movie until you're ready to go back to bed, and then I'll read these while you're sleeping."

The notecards are set down slowly, carefully onto the table, even given a little pat when John mentions getting around to reading them later. Sherlock pretends to consider this for a moment to disguise his surprise, then nods.

"That would be acceptable." He folds his hands sedately over the book corner that he's destroyed in his nervousness. Hide the evidence.

"Such enthusiasm," John snorts, heaving himself up off the sofa. "Feeling up to shredded chicken and noodles?"

Sherlock hums absently, more occupied with the chef than the menu. Two years spent grieving and weeks with nothing to do but tend to one patient and _reflect_ have done something (terrible? wonderful?) to John, and it keeps taking Sherlock's breath away. Instead of knee-jerk reactions and emotion-fueled decisions, there are carefully considered, measured responses being given him that Sherlock feels in no way deserving of.

But deserving or not, he must try to live up to John's faith, love, and kindness.

"John?" he calls, stopping him before he disappears into the kitchen.

"Hm? Too adventurous? There's still some soup left."

"Thank you."

John is looking over his shoulder, teetering like he's about to fall forward again and continue on his quest for a quick supper. But at this simple expression of gratitude he turns back and smiles, then makes aborted little movements like he wants to both go and cook dinner but also return to the couch, and keeps making up his mind differently every half-second.

Britannia rules in the end, and John simply nods and leaves Sherlock with a quiet, "Anytime".

Sherlock breathes out, simultaneously discovering that he'd been holding his breath as well as holding himself in readiness for...something. But John's pottering away happily in the kitchen now, humming and clattering about and most importantly not pinning Sherlock in place with a fond, steady, seeking gaze. Released and relaxing, Sherlock sighs and sinks back into the cushions, and in similar fashion his mind drifts down through layers of memories newly made.

Some are sparkling, like sinking into a warm bubble bath and watching the foam rise up around one's body. Smiles and grins and outright laughs.

Others are familiar and comforting to find again, like the satisfying crunch of autumn leaves after a wet spring and long summer. Jokes and praise and a perfectly fried egg.

Others...oh. They're like the touches they've been sharing all day.

The warmth of John's hands on his wrists. "Asking as your friend."

The soothing press of one hand trapped between John's forearm and palm. "Just absolutely brilliant."

Like the wonderful breathlessness of being held tight in those sturdy arms. "I love you".

It comes on him like a realization at a crime scene or while poring over a case file; the puzzle pieces suddenly _fit_ and he can see the picture they make. John wavering in the doorway and Sherlock poised and ready on the sofa, watching, anticipating, yearning.

It feels like they're reaching for each other.

Have been all day, in fact. Was Sherlock getting out of bed the catalyst? The physician not able to act as something more until his duties were over? Or was it the note; confessions and declarations serving as a key to unlock potential and possibilities? If being able to share his thoughts had been the goal itself, there wouldn't still be this sense of wanting, or waiting...this sense of _more_ existing just barely out of reach, would there?

His eyes cut over to his cards, now literally on the table. A relationship - whether friends long lost or something more about to begin - goes two ways. The image of a door with a two person control locking mechanism pops into his mind, and he smiles at the metaphor. (A Bond film tonight?) For all his protestations that a reply isn't necessary, perhaps John is waiting for Sherlock's response. And Sherlock himself needs John's answer in order to understand what paths are available to him. To them.

What lies on the other side of the door?

(Will we walk through together?)

(Or is there someone waiting, already, for John?)


	13. In Word or Deed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 13 chapters, they've communicated "I love you" to each other, and there is still no snogging. What even am I writing? orz

While dinner is cooking, Sherlock has tea, John opens a beer, and they trade smiles across the stretch of floor every time John has to retrieve something from the refrigerator or turns to the kitchen table for a sip of Guinness. Egg noodles drain and the chicken finishes up in the pan as John helps Sherlock to the loo and back, and then they collaborate in engineering a pile of pillows and cushions optimal for back and hip support while viewing a movie together.

The cards lie on the coffee table in their neat little stack.

Sometimes Sherlock glances at them, clenches his jaw and wants to get it over with. Mostly he looks anywhere but, and is grateful for the reprieve. Today has been exhausting and wonderful and he doesn't dare hope for any additional miracles. Having dinner together, watching a movie while sitting companionably close on the old couch, and then curling up in bed to hope for a dreamless sleep is the height of his ambitions for the remainder of the evening.

More than he'd dreamed of ever having again, in fact.

He suggests whatever the latest Bond film is, much to John's surprise and delight, so they watch "Skyfall" while holding bowls full of linguine and slivers of summer vegetables, toppped with shredded chicken that gives Sherlock's jaw a workout. Mycroft may be stocking the pantry but John Watson, MD is still doing the cooking, and he tends to leave chicken (clostridium perfringens, campylobacter, enterococcus faecium) and pork (salmonella, enterococcus faecalis, and occasionally trichinella spiralis) a little too long on the hob.

It tastes like home.

The opening sequence of the movie has the consulting detective questioning the wisdom of the choice. The titular character falls and falls and falls through the air to his supposed death, leaving behind a colleague who blames themself for the tragedy, but John's reaction is no worse than a hitch in his breathing and a soft sigh. One hand sneaks over to lightly curl around Sherlock's wrist, fingers resting over a quickening pulse. The sight enchants Sherlock for a good half hour, at the end of which he is slumped down and sliding over and snoozing away on John's shoulder, and all in all it's the quietest he's ever been during a Bond night.

He becomes aware that he's fallen asleep when he finds himself being woken up, with hands (gentle, warm, calloused, familiar, _safe_ ) cradling his face and John's voice quietly but persistently calling his name.

"Sherlock. Wake up."

It's the rough, tremulous tone of the voice more than anything else that has Sherlock actively fighting his way out of somnolence. He rouses with a quick inhale and glances around the room, but nothing seems out of place. The remains of dinner are drying out on the table and the telly is still on, explosions rocking the scene but the volume down low. None of Mycroft's babysitter-bodyguards are present. John is still on the couch, not half out of his seat with his gun in one hand. ( _Does_ he still have his gun?) Oh, but the cards - _Sherlock's_ cards - have moved from the coffee table to the couch, misaligned edges just visible beyond the curve of John's hip.

(Sneaky John. Well, Sherlock _had_ fallen asleep, though he hadn't technically "gone to bed". He's a bit impressed, and more than a bit on edge now.)

"Hey. Sorry to wake you."

He refocuses on anxious eyes, imbibing some of that emotion for himself.

"John? What's wrong?" Sherlock keeps to the same whisper being used, though the room seems devoid of danger.

"Nothing. Well, something."

(That is singularly unhelpful, thank you John. How is he supposed to solve a case without any details?)

"I need to tell you something," John murmurs, and he closes his eyes and leans forward, knocking his forehead into Sherlock's.

(Oh.)

_This is something I need to say, and to your face._

Sherlock goes still, then noting that John is probably waiting for some sort of response, nods slightly. There's hardly any space between them, and the moment is unbearably full of sensation; noses brushing, skin and skulls rubbing, shallow breaths mingling between them. This is why most heart attacks occur in the morning; Sherlock isn't sure his body can take the sudden switch from peaceful slumber to...to... _this_.

"I've been keeping something...I've been _lying to you_ ever since we met, and maybe you know and maybe you don't. Maybe you don't even care; I don't know, but I want to be done with it."

He feels in real danger of a myocardial infarction at the first four words (what's her name?), but the time frame John gives his lie (??) lets him breathe again.

"Our first dinner at Angelo's. I _was_ trying to chat you up, even though I denied it right afterwards."

A tiny thrill of vindication sparks briefly, but there are too many what-ifs and regrets over time and opportunities wasted to want to breathe any life into it.

"Married to your work, you said, and I was already...I mean we'd just met but...it stung, more than it should've. So I always made sure I responded first after that, whenever anyone mistook us for more than friends. Always jumped to make it clear that we weren't. I didn't want to have to hear it again, d'you see?"

John's eyelids squinch down, hard, like he's fighting off a bright light or sudden headache. Pale hands find their way almost automatically to the man's temples, smoothing back hair too short to need such a gesture, trying to soothe away whatever is hurting him. The contact eases Sherlock too, helps keep new fears from forming over whatever John wishes to confess, and he tentatively curls his hands 'round John's neck to anchor himself.

Try again, Sherlock wants to beg. Ask me. Please still want to. But John isn't done explaining.

"You were so-- you _are_ so brilliant and caring and just...oh hell, _beautiful_. And there you were, swishing around London with those curls and ridiculous legs and bespoke suits and I felt sometimes like I was barely holding my own, just tagging along after you, cleaning up and looking out. And it only got worse, really. People'd look at you and then they'd look _down_ at me like they were wondering why I was there, and my pride - _stupid_ \- couldn't take hearing how I wasn't interesting enough or smart enough for you to--"

This is...this is intolerable, that John Watson should have ever felt this way even once, that Sherlock had perhaps had a hand in making him feel small or unworthy. He wants to destroy everyone who ever dared to sneer down their noses at this man and also abase himself at John's feet to offer worship.

He shakes his head as emphatically as he can within the grip of John's hands, strangles out a "No" before choking on all the rest of it. He can't find words for how wrong this explanation is, how it simply does not fit into the fabric of the universe no matter which way one turns it. John lifts his head up, blinks a bit as he moves back and looks at him. They're staring at each other from a handspan away, gazes drifting to trace the lines of pain that must be etched on each other's faces but always flitting back to lock eyes.

John ignores his protest.

"So that's why. That's the only reason," John murmurs, and gives Sherlock's head a tiny shake as if to ensure the sound vibrations are properly traveling along his ear canals and drums and mallei and so forth. Wanting to make sure that what he's saying is getting through. "And, well, with my luck this has bugger-all to do with your request but I couldn't take the chance. I've wanted to tell you for so long anyway, so there it is."

_Your request._

(My request?)

Sherlock's so thrown - thrilled, broken, hopeful, devastated - that he can't immediately recall what request he's made, and for a horrified split-second wonders if he'd actually written down his eighty-three and hundred twenty requests (1. Kiss me.) and accidentally given them over along with his actual message. But then he remembers, and John elaborates anyway.

"My only boundary is your well being," John says, voice and gaze and hands steadier now. "I won't let you do drugs or run off again without me, but anything else, you can ask me. Never mind what you think my 'nature' is, all right?"

The last word cuts off in a strange way, and Sherlock glances down to find that it's because he's put his fingertips over John's mouth.

(...?)

He drags his eyes back up, feeling dazed, feeling high, feeling like he can see everything including the future but there's so much input that he can't make sense of any of it. He's been comprehending all the words perfectly well, but at the moment that the big picture should coalesce, it all scatters into confetti. 

Ah. He must have needed a moment in which to process, which he why he so rudely interrupted John by practically sticking his fingers into the man's mouth, like pacifying a fussing infant with a dummy. The time gained, however, is wasted. His brain has experienced a processing error and gone offline. Disconnected. Crashed. He's not even sure if he's feeling anything other than overwhelmed. All systems down.

Sherlock decides to ring tech support.

"What are you telling me?" he asks. Breathes. It's barely a whisper.


	14. Clarification

John sucks in a breath and sighs it out again, quick and shallow. It's hot against the hand that Sherlock stupidly still has pressed against the other man's lips, obviously impeding said man's ability to actually answer the question being put to him, but Sherlock is frozen solid, or stupid. And then John - clever John, adaptable John, master tactician Captain J. H. Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers - finds a way around the obstruction.

He leans in, and...and Sherlock isn't sure what this is. It's very much like a kiss, except that _his fingers are still covering John's mouth_. It may be the worst tragedy the UK has ever witnessed. It may also be the only thing stopping Sherlock from dropping dead of shock (92%) and joy (8%) right there on the couch.

In all other aspects, it is very much a proper kiss. Those capable hands are still cradling Sherlock's head gently, thumbs slowly rubbing back and forth along sometimes-scoffed-at cheekbones. John's eyes are closed and he's tipped his head slightly to the left to avoid mashing their noses together. His lips purse softly against Sherlock's fingers, go slack and retreat, then press forward once more. And (oh) now John's mouth is open, just a milimeter or two, enough to leave a sliver of damp against Sherlock's middle finger.

A shiver pours down the entire surface of his epidermis, beginning with the crown of his head and ending with a spasm of his toes.

"That," John murmurs, nosing at the curve of Sherlock's fingers and pressing a light kiss to the palm. He pulls away and also tugs Sherlock's wrist down, finally getting the interfering limb out of the way of his mouth.

And Sherlock's mouth.

Their mouths.

(Oh God.)

Sherlock utters a noise that was meant to be a succinct interrogative phrase but ends up sounding more like a three inch tall goose honking. It makes a wisp of a smile appear on John's face, so, not a complete loss.

"Should've written you another card," John mutters, then gives himself a quick shake. He shores himself up, setting his shoulders and firming his jaw, then takes a steadying breath and overturns Sherlock's reality like it's a shoddy balsawood table.

"I am trying to tell you - and apparently doing a piss-poor job of it, so no more faffing about - that I love you. That I'm _in love with you_. That I want you; as much of you as you're willing to give me. And if it's friendship and a flatshare and no more I'll still be perfectly happy to have that, and only that. But if you want more too, then...well, I'm telling you that my answer will be a very enthusiastic yes."

Sherlock stares, then blinks a bit when his eyes start to dry out.

(John _loves_ me. Really actually loves me.)

(John loves _me_. Not the blonde, not a woman at all, but the man who lied to him and left him and still needs cue cards for ordinary social interactions.)

( _John_ loves me. John Heterosexual Watson, known Biblically on three continents, a veteran of all the Katherines and Helens and boring bloody bints that London has on offer.)

(John is _in love_ with me. Not how he loves his mates, his family, his risotto. I can ask him if he will kiss me and his answer will be a very enthusiastic yes. We can share the flat and our food and the Work but also a bed, and kisses, and an entire life together.)

( _John and I are in love with each other._ )

This initial clarification-explanation-revelation is so stunning that it takes a good minute of fierce focus and mental review to even comprehend the rest of what John had said, not just acknowledge that noises are coming out of his mouth. He is offering Sherlock a return to the precious camaraderie that they had before, but also the option of becoming more.

He is offering.

He is asking.

He wants.

And with that fact acknowledged, the question that has been haunting Sherlock goes from a dread-soaked spectral shade to a mere lump of laundry to be ignored or attended to as the whim might take him, with no more importance either way.

John will gleefully commit all sorts of crimes, but he is still an honorable man. He may not always behave in accordance with the law, but he consistently acts in defense of what is _right_. Prides himself on it, in fact. And while he has possibly shagged more people than he'd ever hurt or healed in Her Majesty's service, he has never nor will he ever commit adultery.

No, he does not have a girlfriend or fiance. He cannot possibly.

"...Sherlock?"

(?)

(Oh!)

John is quirking his eyebrows in a manner that means, "I am expecting a response and I am not getting it."

Far be it from him to keep the man he loves waiting at such a pivotal moment. Sherlock hastens to convey the most important assurance first, which is that he loves him. Loves him _too_ and loves him _back_ and loves him in every single terrible, specious, dull, and irrational way that he's ever scoffed at before.

John's eyebrows knit together a bit, and Sherlock realizes he's used some rather unflattering adjectives there, and that is probably A Bit Not Good when one is discussing romantic love with the person that one is in romantic love with.

He stammers out an apology and attempts to explain how unprepared he was for John's confession, and thus how stunned, how shocked, how staggered. And these are still not very positive words, so he hastily tacks on that it's with _joy_ , of course, that he is all these things. Because of course love is not the enemy of his cherished pure, cold reason when it is shared between the two of them, but a wonderful foil and counterpart.

John, despite the many ways in which he is ordinary, had proved from the very beginning of their acquaintance to be the perfect complementary component to Sherlock. He provides a sturdy foundation and a blank background, conducts light despite not being luminous himself, is a dull grey whetstone upon which Sherlock can sharpen his mind. How could it have taken them both by such surprise that he would also turn out to be an equally powerful reagent when it came to Sherlock's heart?

John belongs on the table of elements.

"Feeling a little awkward, here."

Sherlock dismisses this with a fond scoff, doing nothing to stem the tide of heartfelt praise falling from his lips. John may as well enjoy it while it lasts; he cannot recall the last time he eulogized anyone in such a manner and it may never happen again. This is, in fact, a salient point. Sherlock is the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. That John, the bravest and kindest and wisest human being he has ever had the good fortune of knowing, should not only stay long enough to be known, but also give Sherlock his loyalty and love...well. The languages that he knows are one and all too clumsy to properly express how he feels.

Perhaps he should work on a conlang to address this issue.

"...Sherlock, you in there?"

Sherlock blinks. Frowns in confusion. Opens his mouth.

...and realizes that he hasn't opened his mouth in a while, actually.

"I didn't say any of that out loud, did I." His conlang will include many, many expletives.

"Ah, there you are," John says with obvious relief. "Thought I'd broken you. And er...no, you haven't said anything since I um...told you how I feel."

Sherlock deflates a bit, but then rallies as he determines that there is yet a simple and effective way to salvage this situation.

He does not square his shoulders or straighten his spine. He is not a soldier, like John. He is an impulsive amateur scientist with finely honed mental skills and no clue how to handle even his own heart. Instead of coming up with plans of attack, he throws volatile chemicals about and then waits to see what happens.

"I love, am in love with, and desire you as well," he blurts. "And 'kiss me' was number one on my list."

John's smile is no mere wisp this time; it blooms bright and warm and takes over his entire face in a blink. He reaches up, clasps the back of Sherlock's neck, and leans in startlingly close and yet not close enough by far. The proximity makes observations a little more difficult but still, happiness is as obvious on his face as relief is in the droop of his shoulders and the gusty sigh that turns into a chuckle.

"Can I, then?" John asks, steady and sure but still requesting permission. There is no hand in the way of his taking, now; they are clenched bloodless-tight in Sherlock's lap.

It seems like a fair opening for an "obviously" and a shared giggle, but Sherlock doesn't trust his vocal chords with so many syllables. Or even a single syllable. He manages a shaky nod and then as John leans in, a quick inhale, like he's jumped off a bridge and is headed straight for the water.


	15. Kiss Me

First kisses are, for the most part, short, simple, and unremarkable except for the novelty of holding the inaugural post. Sherlock has time to start up a panic that he'll waste the experience itself in scrambling to collect data points during the minimal time allotted. But John leans in, gently presses his lips to Sherlock's, and stays there. The seconds slowly unspool, and Sherlock finds that he's being given plenty of time to record every sensation and reaction and impression. His pulse calms, he learns by example that one need not hold their breath during a kiss, and he discovers that he rather enjoys the flutter of John's eyelashes against his skin.

Visual focus at this close range is impossible, of course, but can see well enough to notice when John slowly blinks his eyes open. His own are darting back and forth, he knows, especially keen when laugh lines deepen as John smiles. He can feel the man's lips thin and go taught against his own, and the warm puff of a suppressed laugh.

John presses in more forcefully for just a split second, then retreats, like a little kiss-shove. One hand is still clasping his nape and keeping him close, however, so Sherlock theorizes that this maneuver is some sort of signal that the kiss has concluded. As if to reward him for this brilliance, the moment is topped off with a barely-there peck, like a period at the end of a long sentence.

"All right?" John asks, smiling still, keeping Sherlock anchored.

Safe.

Warm.

Loved, wanted, worthy.

Sherlock nods. Wonders what the protocol is for asking for another kiss. Is it like a formal meal, where you subtly signal a desire for seconds by clearing your plate instead of leaving one bite behind? Or is it more along the lines of supper parties, where the families take turns extending invitations?

"Again?" John queries, hopeful tone making clear which way his inclinations lie.

(Ah. Formal meal etiquette.)

(Perhaps the back and forth rule applies to sessions of kissing, not individual kisses. Must research.)

(...later.)

"Please."

Sherlock can be civilized when properly motivated.

He closes his eyes this time, eager to collect and compare and consider. Focuses entirely on touch, blocks out sight and sound and scent so that he can concentrate. Hums contentedly when John brings his other hand up to cradle his jaw and sweeps his thumb along the side of his face.

John gives him another one of those nudge-kisses and then retreats just far enough to ask what has to be the world's most superfluous question.

"Good?"

Instead of rolling his eyes, Sherlock nods, because he does not want to ruin the mood by acting a prat. That done, he hints at a desire for recommencing the kissing by tipping his head invitingly and pinning his best yearning look at John's lips. If this were a dinner, he would be painted as a shameless glutton.

But then again, John has always been keen on feeding him up.

The third kiss is like the demonstration that had been given against Sherlock's palm; John lips at his mouth halfway through, setting off the same tip-to-toes cascade of shivers. A rogue spasm in his limbs has him clutching blindly, fingers clawing into John's shirt, holding on at bicep and elbow because he might fall off the couch otherwise. His world feels tippy and spinny and it seems to be affecting his stomach as well as his inner ear. His pulse kicks up again, and yet another notch when John gives a low hum and nibbles at him a second time. The goosebumps from the first time haven't even completely faded yet, and the fluttery feeling building and building in his stomach makes Sherlock whine faintly against John's mouth.

He seems to have stumbled across a signal of some sort, like spouting gibberish but accidentally speaking a word or two in an unfamiliar language. John...does something. Presses in harder, draws him in closer, moves his mouth in a way that reminds Sherlock of biting but without any teeth, of clawing but only with fingerpads. Of devouring.

The trembling in his tum gets markedly worse, and Sherlock isn't sure if he's feeling more afraid and unsure, or if this is a herald of an oncoming loss of control; of impulsively deciding to throw self-control, dignity, and everything else separating man from goldfish to the wind. What he means to _do_ with that disinhibition is still undecided. It could be anything from tearing off John's shirt and marking him with a bite, to blurting out a proposal of marriage and matching tattoos. Whatever it ends up being, he's sure it'll be mortifying.

But before he can do anything, before he can even draw breath for a whimper, John pulls away and to the side, buries himself in the crook of Sherlock's neck and heaves out a lung-emptying sigh. It's warm and damp and under any other circumstances would ride the line between curious and unpleasant. As it is, he finds it intimate and comforting. Without much thinking about it, he releases his fistfuls of John's shirt and wraps the man in a firm hug, mirroring the one he himself is enveloped in.

(Additional research item: widely accepted standard quota for first kisses.)

Kisses are new and exciting, but hugs are rare enough and nothing to sneeze at either, so Sherlock settles into the embrace quite contentedly. John has him firmly about the shoulders with one hand carefully smoothing over the bandages hidden underneath layers of fabric. Sherlock is tired but wired, achy but blissful, mentally and emotionally overwhelmed. He lays his head on John's and idly watches a bedraggled 007 have a short-lived confrontation in an abandoned church.

A nuzzle and kiss to his neck yanks his attention away from the movie that he isn't really watching, and then John is carefully rearranging the both of them. There's a quiet "c'mere" and a great deal of squirming and swearing and blanket-tugging before John is satisfied, but at long last they are supine. Sherlock's cards are once again on the coffee table, the blanket is deemed superfluous and relegated to the floor, John is draped a la Sherlock along the seat cushions, and Sherlock is wedged between John and the back of the couch and happy to be so.

(John? My boyfriend? My significant other? My life partner?)

(My John.)

He wiggles a bit, more to signify that he is cozy and content where he is than actually getting any additional settling-in done, and nabs a bit of John's clothing in a proprietary pinch. John drops a kiss into his hair and re-starts the movie that they're honestly still not going to watch.

"Go back to sleep. You've had an eventful first day out of bed."

Sherlock hums, mind too awhirl to drop off so simply but not inclined to disagree.

(A shower and proper shampoo. Sitting in the living room. Eggy toast with a sprinkle of salt. Watching John pecking away at his laptop.)

("I'm _here_." "You are my best friend, the best person I know." "Amazing. Just absolutely brilliant.")

(Smiles. Laughter. Hugs.)

(John's note. My note.)

("Because I love you. Because I'm _in love with you_. And I want to know if I can kiss you.")

He has a great deal to sort through and arrange in his Mind Palace, and knows that he won't be able to resist a bit of awestruck review and replay as he does so. In John's arms is as good a place as any to be while he works. In point of fact, he cannot think of a better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sobs in weary gratitude while finally adding the "first kiss" tag after nearly 18k words*


	16. Principles of Sherlock Husbandry

Sherlock's first full day out of bed _had_ been eventful and exhausting but he'd also spent a good portion of it napping, so after creating a new wing in his Mind Palace and meticulously archiving every new memory, Sherlock only manages a brief nap before rousing once more.

The living room is fully dark now; the telly off, the street quiet, and the sun still hours away from pressing hopefully against the curtains. John is a warm, solid presence from nose to kneecap, like a custom body pillow designed to keep Sherlock contentedly still. Wary of waking his living, breathing bolster, Sherlock keeps mum and motionless while deciding how to while away the time.

Going over his recently acquired knowledge of what it feels like to be kissed (!) and cuddled (!!) and loved (!!!!!) by John Watson is the obvious answer. It's mostly indulgence, but he tells himself it's only prudent to double-check his new memories and confirm that they're securely archived.

It strikes him, just before he settles into the task, how glad he is to have woken up wrapped firmly in John's presence. The idea of his feelings being reciprocated has been a dream so long desired and yet despaired of; a few kisses and a declaration is not enough to destroy a hopeless yearning that's had years in which to solidify. Had he woken up back in bed, and alone, he might have worried that the entire day had been a dream. Even now, with his head pillowed on John's shoulder and John's heartbeat steady under one palm, he is fluttering back and forth between something like giddiness and stunned disbelief.

Sturdy, soaked-in happiness will only come with time and repetition, he supposes. Right now his brain is reeling at the surprise of a loading dose, and will need to adjust to being loved. Later, he will become accustomed to the increased dosages of dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin, and he will be able to be calm even when it hits him that he, W. Sherlock S. Holmes, is loved and desired by none other than John H. Watson. Kisses may even become habit; not to be pondered and plotted but simply included in the daily routine.

This new thought knocks him down another mental path, and he blinks and wonders wide-eyed what it will be like to be comfortable with John in a romantic partnership and not just a flatshare and friendship. The prospect of all the firsts they have yet to experience is a separate topic entirely. What he's suddenly struck with is the question of whether John is the sort of partner who will nonchalantly burst in to use the loo even if Sherlock is showering.

"All right?" John rumbles, and Sherlock jumps a bit in his embrace. "You were doing your thinky thing but then you suddenly went all stiff."

At this, Sherlock cranes his head up to peer at his pillow with a puzzled frown.

"My thinky thing?"

John mm-hms contentedly, eyes barely open and a sleep-slack smile creasing his face.

"If you're not buried all the way in your Mind Palace, you fidget when you're thinking something through. You hum and twiddle your fingers and tap your feet and all sorts of things. You've been drumming on my ribs for a bit now."

"Sorry," Sherlock offers, but John interrupts with a shush and some reinforcing cuddling. He props his head up a bit with the hand he doesn't have firmly wrapped around Sherlock's torso. No one has any right to look attractive from this angle, with extra chins and a bit of sleep crusted in the corner of their left eye, but Sherlock is near to overwhelmed by how lovely every tiny detail of the man is.

"It's nothing," he eventually answers, getting back to the topic at hand. "Just trying to acclimate myself. Or rather, I am attempting to acclimatize. I suppose it's more accurate to say that I am adjusting to the entirely new realm of a romantic relationship, rather than adjusting to the addition of kissing to our existing partnership."

There's another hum and smile, and after a bit of a think of his own, John asks,

"Guess I'm your enrichment team, then? Any...I dunno, feedback or suggestions? Questions, concerns?"

More of the latter two than he cares to tally at the moment, yes, but it takes no time at all to categorize them all as stemming from insecurity and fear. They're weeds growing in the plot he's attempting to cultivate a relationship in; a waste of time at best and threatening to crowd out and suffocate at worst. He'll deal with them later. Perhaps he'll decide to ask for John's assistance and advice, perhaps not, but either way he won't bother the man with them just now.

"No," Sherlock replies, casual as he can. And in case it's not convincingly casual enough, adds a question designed to distract John away from pursuing the thought.

"And you? The metaphor begins to break down a bit, but at the risk of flogging it to death, I believe _I_ am _your_ enrichment team, as we are both in this relationship as well as caretakers of it."

(Any feedback or suggestions? How was the kiss, on a scale of zero to one hundred, and please explain your rating. What can I do better next time? There _will_ be a next time, I hope? I assume. I dare to hope and assume.)

(Any questions? Concerns? Any answers you can feed me, and detailed instructions on how to assuage said concerns? And if you have concerns about how inexperienced and unprepared I am to address your concerns, let me only say; I am a quick learner, and most highly motivated to succeed in this endeavor.)

John hums again, a delightfully soothing and contented sound that Sherlock can feel in his skull and fingertips and just to the left of his sternum.

"What was number two on your list?"

Sherlock has to wiggle a shiver of anticipation and excitement away before answering.

"Kiss me again, with your head tilted the other way."

John chuckles and starts tugging Sherlock up higher on the couch so that he can oblige.


	17. Honeymoon (but not a sex holiday)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in my notes, this was supposed to be just a paragraph or two before I led into the next bit. It ended up being a whole chapter by itself. How do I concise??

John teases him for the full list. Some of the items on the list are impossible under current circumstances, or at the very least exceedingly ill-advised, so Sherlock's compromise is writing the first five items down on an index card and handing it over for review and discussion, with more to be revealed if all goes well.

1\. Kiss me  
2\. Kiss me again, with your head tilted the other way  
3\. Kiss my temple and linger there, like you're breathing in my shampoo  
4\. Kiss the top of my head while holding my face in your hands  
5\. Kiss my neck, just over my jugular vein

John reviews it until he has it memorized, then skips the discussion bit entirely and goes straight to implementation. Sherlock finds himself amenable. Enthusiastically so, in fact. Number five in particular is such a rousing success, so to speak, that they don't get any farther than this first handful of requests during the inaugural week of their romance.

Or perhaps they're already three years into their romance, but only just now learning to celebrate it together.

However it is, Sherlock is kept perfectly content with the variety to be found in these sweet, simple kisses. They make him hunger for more, but it's for repetition, not diversity. Besides, he finds that there is an infinite variety to be found even in the first item on his list alone. Duration, pressure, the temperature and texture and taste of John's lips depending on whether he's just licked them or had juice or sipped at his tea. Reclining on the couch together, head tipped back while seated in his chair, being assisted in standing and sitting and lying down.

His favorite variation is when he's lying in bed, head pillowed on John's arm, with both hands wrapped around John's free hand while they trade kisses until one of them falls asleep.

Because yes, now John sleeps with him.

Only in the literal sense, of course, what with Sherlock's still shaky state of health and John's insistence upon a glacial pace when it comes to advancing in their physical intimacies. Sherlock had pouted a bit when John had trotted _that_ one out, but it had been more on principle than any real hurry. He'd capitulated almost immediately at John's explanation that he wanted to thoroughly enjoy each step they took together, instead of rushing through any part of it.

They've already wasted enough opportunities, nearly missed all of their chances.

Sherlock's unruly brain occasionally attempts to suggest a tangled theory of mistrust and doubt involving John's desire to have an escape route clear of Mycroft's security detail available before he takes things any further. Each time the thought pops up, it is mentally stamped on, ground down, and kicked away. Sherlock is determined not to ruin this almost surreal honeymoon period granted to them with his insecurities.

( ~~At least he will always have this precious, perfect time to look back upon, even if--~~ )

Very, very determined.

And so they fall into a new routine, unmarred by any (real) bickering, not soured by any (sustained) complaints of boredom. John moves into physical therapist mode, becomes a devout student of massage therapy and exercise routines specific to injury recovery, and playfully announces "enrichment time!" whenever he chivvies Sherlock out of bed or his seat to do careful laps around the flat or an hour of yoga in the living room. If Sherlock is feeling particularly unmotivated to move, the enrichment team is treated to a few growls or hisses, or perhaps a quick swipe of one paw.

The yoga, in particular, ensnares Sherlock in a complicated love/hate relationship. Something touted as soothing and meditative has no business turning out to be so arduous. He's always sweating profusely ten minutes into the session, and every pose that he wobbles and flails and falls out of only reminds him of how badly worn and weakened his body is.

But John is always there, nearly constantly in contact as he instructs and guides. Calloused hands adjust Sherlock's limbs, steady his hips, and modify his stances. Sherlock strains to maintain poses for as long as he can for the sole purpose of not losing contact with the warm palm cupping his elbow or the fingertips pressing into the small of his back, and is rewarded for his efforts with kisses dropped to the nearest bit of skin; cheek, bicep, shoulderblade. Once in a while, his stomach.

The warm baths and soothing massages afterwards also help to make the physical therapy well worth the exertion.

As he recovers his strength, he also rebuilds his endurance. On yoga days, he tends to fall asleep so quickly that he doesn't even notice John climbing into bed, and is only reassured of John having stayed when he wakes to the sound of his snores. But one day, despite being kneaded into marshmallowy pliancy after a particularly grueling session of virabhadrasanas and trikonasanas, Sherlock manages to stay awake while listening to John complete his own nighttime routine.

He's treated to a surprised but pleased expression as John climbs into his side of the bed.

"Hello, you. Did I not tire you out enough?"

"You're welcome to try now," Sherlock suggests, not quite confident enough to try adding bedroom eyes or dropping his voice to a more seductive register. He's shammed it before for cases, but it is an entirely different endeavor when one adds real emotion to the mix. That he is brave enough to flirt at all, even, is only thanks to John proving over and again that his self-control is enough to keep desire in check.

The feedback loop discovered during their first few kisses is still going strong. When John gives Sherlock anything more than a chaste, closed-mouth peck, there is a one hundred percent chance of Sherlock breaking out into full body goosebumps. Any additional nibbly kisses delivered before the shivers have time to fade triggers a cascade effect eventually resulting in a somewhat embarrassing but delicious loss of control. Sherlock squirms, clutches blindly, and buries his face in John's neck, whines, whimpers needily, and gasps out all the air in his lungs.

And John reacts.

He holds tighter, grasps harder, and contented hums give way to predatory rumbles. If Sherlock manages to keep his eyes open, he gets to see John's pupils blow wide and his face flush rosy red.

He also gets to see John close his eyes and struggle to even out his breathing. Their foreheads touch, or John will nuzzle into his collarbone or hair, like he wants to increase contact even as he dials back the tension. The kisses often resume, but they're quick and sweet, or smacking and silly. Sometimes they'll tease John's self-control again, and other times they'll move on to other things.

Tea, toast, telly, talk, ~~torment~~ therapy.

Now, in the companionable darkness of Sherlock's bedroom (is it _their_ bedroom now?) John grins down at him, fond and amused and perhaps a smidgen proud at this daring invitation.

"Am I now?" he asks, and pretends to fall upon Sherlock like a wild animal, all growls and nips, startling a laugh out of him that seems even louder for its unexpectedness. They tussle a bit, giggling and shushing each other, mindful of Mycroft's minions below them, and eventually sort the tangle of limbs and pillows and sheet-wrinkles out so that they're both comfortable.

"Not sleepy at all?" John asks. "Did you want to nip back out to the living room, or...?"

Sherlock smiles and shakes his head, perfectly content to stay in this little cocoon.

"Here is fine. I want to stay just like this, and have you talk to me until I fall asleep. Probably very rudely, right in the middle of a sentence."

He is much better now at communicating his wishes in clear and simple words. John seems to take great delight in fulfilling these wishes, which helps, of course. Apparently all Sherlock needed was the proper motivation.

"Hm, shall I read to you out of my old textbooks, then?" John snickers. "Take you on a fascinating tour of the carpals?"

Sherlock wrinkles his nose, though it's tempered by a smile. The happiness to be found in being silly together is quite ridiculous. He's turned into a sentimental sop and does not give one good God damn about it.

"No? How about the extensor muscle groups?"

"Mm, no." Sherlock ponders topics while John pretends to be disappointed. He's not got much practice at this playfulness, and quickly gives up on formulating a funny suggestion. Asking himself what things he truly wishes to find out next about his John yields better - or at least more numerous - results.

"Tell me about her?" he asks quietly, and watches, and waits.


	18. Meeting Mary

It's not the dreaded, dizzying, terrifying moment he'd once feared it would be. He trusts his knowledge of John - his observations and the reasonings built upon them, all the evidence and yes, now, his _feelings_ \- and the conclusion he'd come to before of John being a free man is still solid and stable. Stronger now than when it first came to mind, even, shored up by all the kisses and caresses and murmured praises even when Sherlock hasn't said anything clever. Not once has there been a look of guilt or regret, or hesitation born from a pang of conscience.

The memory of that night at The Landmark is as clear as it can be given the state he'd been in at the time, but the blonde in the lavender gown is a simple data point now, of some curiosity but little weight. The only importance it carries is all tied up in the fact that it forms part of John's life, his experiences and memories and past, and Sherlock will never not be greedy for knowledge on that subject.

He still wants to know, but now he's not afraid to ask.

Simple confusion morphs into a slightly more wary concern on John's face, and when it seems like he's got mired in a mental muck of not knowing what to say next, Sherlock decides that a bit more verbal prompting may well be in order.

"The night I returned," he says, quiet and calm. A soft touch seems appropriate for the late hour and tender topic. "I found you at The Landmark. Table for two, you hadn't ordered yet, not even wine. A bottle blonde in a lavender silk gown, beadwork in a leaf pattern. Earrings to go with the dress, but a ring she wore every day. Easy, confident, not a first date by any means. But you were tense, nervous; this was a special occasion of which the outcome was uncertain, not a celebration. And you had a small jewelry box in the inner pocket of your coat."

Sherlock hesitates, second-guesses himself, then forges on.

"You were going to propose, but you didn't. And now you're here, with me." There's more confidence in his voice than he actually has in his heart, and he gives himself away in the way he clutches a bit tighter at the folds of John's vest.

The silence resettles in the pocket of air between them. The lines of John's face have smoothed back out into a soft, sober wonder. Slightly sad, and Sherlock wonders if it's because he's remembering Sherlock's blood on the wall, or of someone else he's lost. He's not got enough data to be jealous, so he tells himself that the little prickle he feels is concern for John's sorrow.

"At death's door with a fever of nearly 40 degrees, and you still didn't miss a thing, did you," John murmurs, and while he doesn't tack on a "fantastic", Sherlock does get to bask for a second in a wondering smile.

"Did I get anything wrong?"

(There's always something.)

"No, but you did miss a little detail," John notes, still relaxed but now with a hint of teasing. It draws Sherlock's mouth into a pout even while he sags a bit with relief.

"Your recent haircut didn't seem worth mentioning."

"Nor my moustache?"

"Your _what?_ " Sherlock exclaims, drawing back and glancing down, as if one might have sprouted in the last minute. He tries to imagine various styles of upper lip hair and fails utterly at finding anything suitable.

"Well, I've shaved it off obviously," John snorts.

Sherlock's echoing "obviously" is rather weak. He's still busy grimacing at every moustache he conjures up in his mental gallery, though he puts a pin in the scruffy beard look for later consideration. There's a soft sigh then, which draws his focus back up and away.

John rolls away, lies on his back facing straight up to the ceiling, but he also tugs Sherlock along with him and tucks the detective neatly into his shoulder. Settling in for a talk, then, and not any sort of avoidance technique. Sherlock wriggles closer and throws a leg over two delightfully sturdy thighs for comfort, and places one hand with artful casualness over John's chest, half for affection's sake and half for data gathering.

John's free hand comes up to pat Sherlock's, then adjusts the placement of their hands slightly so that they're directly over his heart. Pretense, apparently, is unnecessary.

Sherlock hides a probably inappropriate grin in John's shirt, and feels rather loved.

"Her name is Mary," John tells him, slow and steady, "and I broke up with her over the phone right after our six month anniversary, because the love of my life had unexpectedly returned from the dead."

The grin is smacked right off by this instantly sobering opening, and replaced by an equally unnoticed look of slack-jawed wonder.

This, right here, is an excellent example of the extraordinary kindness of John Watson. He likes to start his stories from the beginning, plod his way through the events in chronological order, and put the denoument at the end where it naturally belongs. But he spoils this tale by beginning at the end, to save his audience from any unnecessary anxiety.

Being called _the love of John's life_ is equally stunning.

Sherlock drags their entwined digits closer so that he can press a kiss to John's knuckles, then settles their hands right where they are, over the right lobe of John's liver. His curls are given an answering peck, and then the story is picked back up in a more Watsonian fashion.

"The day at Bart's wasn't the worst day of my life. Wasn't your funeral, either. It was the day the shock and disbelief wore off and I realized that it was true; you were gone. It...I was...well, things were messy, for a long time."

Sherlock can imagine, and does, and feels his heart break all over again even at this simple description of the grief he'd plunged John into. He realizes he's crushing the man's fingers when he's given a jostling cuddle and firm kiss atop his head.

"It didn't last forever," John says, which honestly is not as reassuring as he probably meant it to be. Sherlock knows how the mind can make time seem to drag on and draw out. Now does not seem the time for an apology, however. A novice he may be when it comes to emotion and empathy, but knows enough to understand that sometimes, confessions and contriteness are purely for the benefit of the sinner, and harm more than heal the one already wounded.

"I'd gone back to work and at some point Mary'd been hired on as a nurse," John continues. "I honestly don't know when. And I must've spoken to her here and there, you know, good morning and thank you and what not, because when I finally lifted my head back up and looked around, there she was, smiling at me like she'd been waiting for me to get a joke.

Everyone I knew from before was treating me like...dunno, bomb about to go off, maybe. No surprise; I didn't feel very stable. But one morning I dropped my phone and suddenly she was there, picking it up for me, and asking me if I wanted 'a soggy paper cup of stewed coffee'. I just stared at her, you know? And she laughed and said she wasn't sure I was really awake yet, and was going to work her way up to asking me to join her for lunch. Wasn't going to waste a proper invitation on a zombie, she said.

It just reminded me of when I'd got back from Afghanistan; everything was miserable and hopeless and then suddenly there's this stranger looking into me and offering...I don't know. Life, I guess."

Their hands untangle and John covers his forehead like he's checking himself for a fever, scrubs at his brow like wants to massage away an incipient headache.

"She wasn't you, but it was just so much worse this time; I knew I wasn't going to run into you in the morgue. I suddenly felt like if I didn't take this opportunity to move on, I never would. I'd just drown."

There is nothing Sherlock can say to this. It doesn't take a consulting detective to deduce where John would be right now, had he never met Sherlock. It chills him to the very core to think of that fate only being deferred, not avoided entirely, had John not met Mary. Any ideas of being pettishly jealous of her are incinerated. Sherlock owes her everything, every grace and allowance and scrap of candor he can dredge up, because she had saved John.

With no words, he offers physical comfort instead, poor though it may be in comparison to the pain he wishes he could assuage.

They curl around each other, nosing and nudging into each other's curves and concavities, two puzzle pieces determined to lock together despite being mismatched. John takes his pulse and smells his hair and takes wet, tasting kisses from his neck, and Sherlock holds fast and lets him.


	19. The Best Efforts of a Broken Heart

The retelling of John and Mary's short-lived romance is hardly begun, never mind finished, and certainly not to the satisfaction of Sherlock's curiosity.

That first night, after only giving a brief summary and the opening paragraph, John ends up falling asleep first, still wrapped up in and around Sherlock and hardly loosening his grip even as he slumbers. The next morning it's obvious that he's uncertain how to continue, but that the subject is never far from his mind. It's in the quick, cautious glances that turn into hesitant smiles or distracting kisses, and the flutter and clench of his left hand.

It occurs to Sherlock - accompanied by the impulse to smack himself on the back of the head for being so thick - that John must need to tell the tale for his own sake as well. Since the unfairy-tale ending, he's been entirely wrapped up in Sherlock's recuperation and completely isolated except for brief interactions with Mycroft's security detail. There has to be a mess of love and loss and gratitude and self-recrimination all tangled up inside him, and after spending his time and talents and energy in taking care of Sherlock, there's been no one for John to turn to, no one to care for him in turn.

Self-flagellation accomplishes nothing useful, so Sherlock only allows himself one remorseful grind of his teeth at his unthinking selfishness, and repeats his gentle prodding of last night over breakfast.

"Tell me about her?" he asks, and John's relieved smile puts a better glow in his chest than the Earl Grey.

According to John, Mary is a capable, no-nonsense nurse, organized and efficient, and the best in the office at handling difficult patients. John praises her cleverness and chuckles over the way she can chivvy people around like a trained sheepdog while still making them think they're being petted and coddled. Sherlock listens, chin propped while the remnants of egg and toast cool and congeal on his plate, and tries to hear what's not being said as well.

There are more anecdotes about early interactions as the two men clear the table and do the washing up; Mary laughing at John over a paper cup of admittedly terrible office coffee, Mary introducing John to different sandwich shops and making him try all her favorites, Mary challenging John to find her a satisfactory Massaman in return for discovering that he does in fact like miso egg yolk aioli on chicken and cheese toasties.

John admits with some sheepishness that she'd set the pace and he'd done nothing but go along with it all. He'd only really realized the scope of their realtionship when she'd asked him to pick the restaurant for their three month anniversary.

"She was making a joke about celebrating 'satisfactory first quarter results' or something like that and checking out restaurants online, thank God," John recalls. "I'm just stood there trying to get my mouth to close. I knew we were dating, but not...I just hadn't thought about it at all, I guess. It woke me up a bit, I think. Shamed me into trying harder to pick myself back up and really move on, not just put myself into her hands and let her do all the work."

Definitely clever, Sherlock thinks, as he settles himself into the leather armchair. Mary had clearly seen John's passivity and lack of engagement, so to speak, and taken steps to shore up the relationship. Initiates a three month anniversary celebration to kill two birds with one stone; not only is John suddenly aware of the actual date they'd become a couple, he'll feel the need to reciprocate by planning their six month do.

And once John Watson commits to something, he puts his head down and goes for it.

"Three months later and I've got a table booked at the Landmark and a ring in my coat pocket," John says, and the lopsided smiles have melted away now, leaving behind tight lines of remorse etched 'round his mouth. "She was the best thing to happen to me since I lost you. And it wasn't just gratitude; I did love her, at least as much as I could. I wanted to make her happy."

And Sherlock thinks back to how John had wanted to keep him alive, and safe, and healthy from the very beginning of their acquaintance. To protect his reputation, his feelings. To have others acknowledge that he had feelings at all, in fact. To make him happy by _not_ giving the oft-times self-destructive detective everything that he asked for. To shout and fight and storm because Sherlock was worth the effort and exertion and exhaustion.

(You did love her. Just not like you love me.)

"You don't have to use past tense," Sherlock finds himself saying, superiority making him magnanimous. "I understand that it's not something you can just shut off, like gas and electric."

The reassurance seems to fall quite flat, unfortunately. Sorrow gives way to an outright grimace.

"That's the thing though," John says, curling up out of his comfortable slouch and one elbow coming to perch on an arm of his red chair. Sturdy fingers rub at his brow like he wants to stop frowning but can't make his features obey.

"The instant you came back, it was like I couldn't see her anymore. I forgot she _existed_. If Mycroft hadn't needed me to talk to her and get her to keep mum about all this, it might've been days before I remembered to call her. It was like...relying on a penlight to navigate a dark room...and when you get out and it's all bright outside, you can't even see the beam anymore. And this is such a fucking awful way to describe an amazing woman, like I was just using her to get by, and I--"

John stutters to a halt, lifts his head out of his hand to look at the armful of Sherlock he's got now, knelt between his legs and collapsed into his lap and muttering something into the folds of his jumper.

"What's that?"

John's gone from unburdening himself to burning himself at the stake, so Sherlock wants to draw this session to a close. Or at least to redirect all this blame to where it belongs. Gone is his comfortable sense of security, the hubris that accompanies unexpected happiness; he recalls what sent John stumbling into Mary's arms in the first place, and is suitably chastened.

He straightens up a bit and looks up into those cherished blue eyes, reddened now with regret. His own are stinging, and he'd be hard pressed to determine whether it's from remorse for what he's done, or gratitude that they've survived it.

"Moriarty threatened to burn the heart out of me," Sherlock says, trying to keep his voice steady and failing terribly at it. "But I actually did it to you, and I am so sorry, John. You mustn't blame yourself for not being able to give anyone else your whole heart, not when I'd been the one to break it."

"Oh...love, no," John says, but Sherlock won't let him continue. Refuses to be drawn up into his lap, too; just wants to kneel at his feet and repent. So John slides down and joins him, presses kisses into his hair, and wraps him up in all the forgiveness and grace that he can't extend to himself.


	20. Mending

They're not quite young and limber enough for an extended cuddle on the floor, so after a few too many shifts and squirms, they relocate to the leather chair.

"Looking back, it must have seemed so crazy to her," John ruminates. Eye contact is a bit beyond him at the moment, but he's sprawled in Sherlock's chair and has the consulting detective nestled in his lap, plus both arms locked firmly 'round Sherlock's waist. With every limb in delicious contact, Sherlock is content to let John's averted gaze seem to be a result of comfort and convenience, instead of a deliberate defensive mechanism.

"Mycroft had me under guard, and I wasn't in a mood to leave your bedside for more than a trip to the loo in any case, so it was all over the phone," John continues. "I waited until she'd signed the NDA, too, which probably makes me even more of a bastard, but I wasn't willing to risk your safety for anything. I tried to make it quick, but it turned into a series of long, drawn-out calls where we just kept going in circles."

"Well, you said she was smart," Sherlock points out. "Only an absolute imbecile would give you up without a fight." But John doesn't chuckle; only shakes his head and sighs into Sherlock's infraclavicular fossa.

"I'm shut up in the loo attached to your room and she's pointing out that I can't even be sure you'll survive - God, that made me so angry - or that you'll want anything more than friendship even if you do. She wanted me to wait to make decisions, at the very least. Called it ridiculous to do otherwise. I mean, I suppose she had a point, but I couldn't think about you rationally. I just knew that whatever happened, you were it for me. I'd got you back, and there wasn't going to be room for anyone else. Not enough, at any rate, for anything serious. Basically just like it was before, except now I was being honest about it."

"It was like this flat," John says, setting off on a tangental path. "When you were gone, I couldn't bear living here anymore. And once you were back, I couldn't stand _not_ living here. Especially after reading through that file. All I could think about with any clarity, any calmness, was that I had to return that...that unimaginable devotion as best I could. And that meant coming back to you, instead of moving forward with Mary."

John sighs again, holds on a smidgen tighter.

"I hate that I did that to her. I still think I made the right decision. Stringing her along until she got fed up and dumped me wouldn't have made anyone happy. Bottom line though, is that she deserved better. My only excuse for the whole mess is I honestly thought you were gone."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispers, and presses a penitent kiss to John's hair. What's done is done, but the repercussions fall heavy on their shoulders sometimes, and he can't help the fanciful desire for some sort of miraculous or magical relief.

Things devolve into a circular argument of where the blame lies for all the hurts suffered, each of them trying to take the lion's share and insisting that the other has nothing to apologize for. In the end, they settle upon a happy compromise of heaping all consequences - primary, secondary, and tertiary - upon Moriarty's head. An overly simplistic solution perhaps, but not unreasonable or illogical.

They have an extended snuggle session that turns into a light doze, and are startled into wakefulness and giggles by someone's stomach giving a startlingly loud growl. They both deny ownership of the noise but agree that preparing and then eating lunch together would be an acceptable passtime, and then begin unfolding themselves from the chair.

John rubs his leg with a few grumbles and Sherlock slowly stretches out his back, reveling in the fact that he can do so without any alarming twinges or spasms. The only ongoing issues that significantly limit him are nerve pain in his shoulder and the need to get back into fighting form, and those simply require more time and cardio to sort out.

Doctor Watson estimates that another three or four months should do the trick. The world's only consulting detective wonders how much time will be required to heal the invisible injuries that they've both picked up.

Happily, some of the prescribed therapies and soothing treatments are already well under way. They are together again, as close as they ever were before, and even closer now with all the intimacy of confessions and conversations and cuddles.

They even have the blessing of a professional. John - shuffling, sheepish, scowling and stubborn - shows Sherlock a few texts from a "Marcus" in his phone as they peck away at a platter of sandwiches.

_I'm glad to hear that your conversations are going well. Remember to consider the facts, your feelings, and your thoughts individually. The latter are still valid even if they're not complimentary._

_Still doing well? I'm available to talk 24/7. Remember that you are just as deserving of proper treatment as any patient you've had in your care. Don't dismiss concerns, even when they're your own._

_Security reports you've taken up massage therapy and purchased some yoga blocks. It's good that you're keeping busy and focusing on healthy recovery. Check in with me before the month is out please._

In addition to the teams marching in and out of the ground floor, Mycroft has apparently authorized John to be in contact with a new therapist. What's even more surprising to Sherlock is the use John's made of this resource.

"He's good," John admits, grudging but also grateful. "He's got some kind of insane clearance, too, so he was able to help me work through a lot while you were still in hospital. I'd sit at your bedside and read through your mission file until I wanted to start ripping the damn thing into shreds, then I'd lock myself in the loo and rant at him. Been ignoring him lately, mostly 'cause things are going so well, but I guess I'd better call him soon."

John absently scrolls back through his text history with Doctor Hughes. Though the messages seem sparse and scattered, as most of John's appointments have presumably been by phone or video call, there's enough for John to fall into a bit of a reverie. Sherlock wants to offer the standard penny rate for some thoughts, but his mouth is full of bread and cheese and garden stuffs at the moment. Choking on a drool-damp chunk of bread or slobbering bits of tomato onto the table would be highly unpleasant and might put John off of kisses for the afternoon, and that is just not on.

An inquiring hum and a quirk of his eyebrows does just as well as a proper query, thankfully, and John hesitates before answering, carefully casual.

"Want his number?"

Sherlock's first instinct is to scoff and sneer and reply in the negative. He's grateful, now, for the half-masticated bite of sandwich keeping him mum. He forces the food down and overcomes the instinctual urge to react defensively, and tries to think of how to answer honestly.

"I don't know," is as good as he can come up with, in the end. Psychiatrists and psychologists and therapists of all types have had him under their care but never did him much good that he can recall. Then again, Sherlock had been bribed, coerced, and threatened into most of those appointments; there had been a distinct lack of engagement and effort on his end, to put it mildly.

Another point occurs to him.

"Do I even have a phone?"

John blinks and actually glances around, as if Sherlock's old mobile or any one of his burners will be perched sedately atop a pile of books. He catches himself, then looks back at Sherlock, and then inevitably, they fall into helpless giggles.

"Hold on, hold on," John says. "I'll sort this."

Ever curious, Sherlock strains his eyes at the phone in John's hands as he casually reaches for another sandwich, trying to decipher the text John is composing. Instead of Marcus, now there's a group text called "Baker Street Brute Squad" on the screen, and John is requesting that Sherlock be provided with a new mobile, or at least a temporary one to use while they are sequestered.

"I'll have them get you a bright pink case," John murmurs from one side of a crooked smile, and then they're laughing again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for your patience, and especially to everyone who sent me kind words of encouragement as I struggled with this chapter. I re-read and re-arranged and re-wrote this chapter so often that I've lost all objectivity toward it (if indeed, I ever had any to begin with when it comes to my own writing) and have no idea whether it's better or worse than before. But it is finished, at least, and I'm going to call that a win. Thank you again for sticking with me.
> 
> New rule: I mustn't start posting a story until I've actually finished writing it. That will save you at least, dear readers, from some angst-ticipation!


	21. Enrichment

They quietly putter about after lunch, not joined at the hip but hardly ever more than ten feet apart. Sherlock rifles through an accumulation of newspapers for interesting morsels, and John taps away at his phone. And as is part of their new routine, as soon as one or the other of them grows restless with their forcedly subdued, sedentary, and confined lifestyle, they draw near and begin angling for contact. Intimacy is a beautiful cure for boredom.

John finds out more of Sherlock's requests.

6\. Kiss my jaw  
7\. Now the other side  
8\. Hug me tightly, fiercely, and don't be the first to let go

There are parts of the list that John cannot do aught about until Mycroft releases them from lockdown and recalls Mrs. Hudson from her vacation, but Sherlock goes ahead and relays them anyway.

17\. Charm Mrs. Hudson into making us her beef stew  
18\. And her mince pie, with the candied orange peel  
19\. And scones (lots of scones)

John turns the list into a new project, getting the security team downstairs to procure him a recipe box for the archival of it. Sherlock's reply-to-a-reply-to-a-note is secured with an elastic band and given a place of honor at the front. After a moment of thought, Sherlock puts John's reply-to-a-note in there as well. They find a place for the box on a shelf in the (their?) bedroom, after some strategizing over where it is least likely to be blown up, accidentally knocked into a fire, shot, or splashed with chemicals.

John takes great satisfaction in painstakingly transcribing each of Sherlock's requests to its own index card. The cards also display the date each request was first fulfilled, and any notes he thinks to add.

25\. Kiss me right after you've eaten a spoonful of honey (15th Nov)  
NB: Results still favorable if jam or marmalade eaten instead of honey. Jaffa Cakes, Jammie Dodgers, and other sandwich biscuits also acceptable, but only for closed-mouth kisses. Snowballing crumb paste is not sexy.

Some requests, John has even fulfilled prior to receiving them verbally. Sherlock dutifully mentions the item and date of occurrence so that the recipe box can remain current.

43\. Push my fringe out of my eyes  
54\. Wash my hair  
72\. Let me use your arm as a pillow

Other requests are a bit too complicated to be left to time and serendipity.

35\. Spread honey on a piece of bread and toast it lightly, then spread butter and more honey on it and toast it a little bit more, then spread a little more butter and honey on the toast and toast it one last time, and then refrain from commenting on my A1C levels as I eat it

John dutifully fulfills this item, carefully monitoring the goldenness of the toast under Sherlock's supervision, and even tries the results out himself. He admits it's delicious and then reluctantly declares that it probably won't hurt anything to indulge in the fat- and carbohydrate-laden snack once in a while. The way he closes his eyes and hums appreciatively over his last buttery bite makes Sherlock think that it will not be too arduous a task to tempt him into making the sweet treat at least every other Sunday.

Sherlock sets about beginning the positive reinforcement straight away, by treating the both of them to a long, drawn-out kiss tasting of butter and honey and lazy afternoons.

The next delivery of supplies is brought up by Mycroft's minions as usual, but not just to the landing. Sherlock perks up from his slouch on the sofa, eagerly latching on to the new data sources as they set boxes and bags down in the living room or kitchen, depending on whether they're carrying groceries or non-kitchen related supplies. The first item to be delivered is a bright pink gift bag, handed off to John and then carried over to the sofa with a grin.

Sherlock eagerly dives in under John's fond gaze, unboxing his new phone and case. Both are a sleek, shiny black as suspected - John and his unconscious bias wouldn't have actually ordered Sherlock a hot pink phone - but the engraving on the case brings him to a halt.

Sherlock Holmes  
From John  
X∞

He remembers a Nokia 97 pulled from a jacket pocket, and smiles.

"Clara only gave your sister three kisses," he notes.

"Figured you deserved more," John replies easily. He's got one arm draped across the back of the sofa, and his body is angled toward Sherlock. He looks inviting. He looks content. Sherlock suddenly wants nothing more than to lean forward, curl into him and climb onto his lap and begin claiming the promised kisses, but there are entirely too many faux workmen still milling about in the background.

...bringing box after box after box into the living room. The smaller ones seem fairly light, but others are set down with significant thuds. The boxes are too numerous to be accounted for by a sudden need to spring clean, too heavy to contain only new linens or clothes, and too square and generic to be replacement laptops and what-not. After the last of the security team departs the first floor, Sherlock speaks up.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Did you buy exercise equipment?" He mentally begs for the answer to be in the negative, or if affirmative, to be solely for John's own use.

"What? No?" John follows his gaze and then brightens. "Oh, fantastic! These are for you, too. Why don't you go ahead and open them all up while I sort out the groceries."

Definitely not cleaning supplies. Sherlock sets his new phone down and follows John off the couch and toward the small hill of brown cardboard.

He attacks the largest box first, and finds it crammed full of small-ish tubes and jars and tubs. Curiosity well and truly piqued now, Sherlock picks up the first item to catch his eye and gives it a cursory examination. He picks up a cello-wrapped three-pack of squeeze bottles next. He sets both back down hastily and grabs a jar, turning it in his hands to check the label. That done, he sets the container gingerly back down and casts a somewhat wary eye over the contents of the box as a whole.

He is staring at approximately sixteen and a half kilograms of assorted personal lubricants.

...for him.

John seems to have some requests of his own to be fulfilled. A great many, in fact, if the quantity of...stuff...he has ordered is any indication. Sherlock opens two other boxes, lighter than the first though not much smaller in dimension.

Condoms. So many condoms.

Sherlock would panic, save that he's too busy being bewildered by the sheer volume and variety that John has ordered in. There are different brand names on the boxes, advertising a plethora of shapes, textures, materials, and flavors. (Warming and Tingling? Glow in the dark? Bacon?!) Perhaps John wants Sherlock to be able to sample a large variety and choose his own favorites. But there are also different sizes ranging all the way from "snug fit" to "magnum extra large". Granted, they have not yet been naked together in _that way_ , but surely John has seen enough of Sherlock's body to take a decent guess at his measurements, no matter where he falls on the "show or grow" scale?

When Sherlock finds spermicide-coated options, he breaks and asks for edification.

"John?" His voice comes out high and reedy, and he clears his throat before trying again. "Why are you worried about the possibility of pregnancy?"

John laughs and waves a bag of spinach at him.

"Open the rest of it."

Sherlock pouts a bit and considers his options. Skirting around another large box, wary of discovering a collection of sex toys next, he rustles open a large paper bag.

Swabs, nitrile gloves, finger cots, and one lighted magnifier buried under all the other packets and boxes.

Sherlock glances back and forth between the laboratory supplies and the bedroom supplies. It would make the most sense that these two varieties of items are not connected to each other, but John's phrasing had indicated otherwise. Sherlock attempts to connect the dots.

(John wants to...?)

(John thinks Sherlock might like...?)

(...)

(Best not to theorize in advance of all the data.)

He opens the next few boxes with a sort of blank determination, only taking just enough time to catalogue the contents before moving on.

Individually packaged stainless steel scissors and scalpels. Sampling pens and punches. Microscope slides and cover glasses. Shampoo, conditioner, and bubble bath. (Probably unrelated; disregard.) Petri dishes, covers, and cling film. 50ml bottles of biuret reagent and crystal violet, and boxes of P30 antigen strips.

"Oh," he blurts in realization and relief.

Wonderful, clever, surprising John Watson, taking his role as Sherlock's enrichment team so very seriously. Wanting to provide the caged consulting detective with something to play with, since they can't go out into the world yet to chase down criminals.

The choice of materials upon which to experiment is a bit unexpected, but then again, Sherlock could hardly expect John to think of texting the agents downstairs with requests for human organs.

Pity. They probably would have been able to arrange it without too much fuss, really.

"Your face was doing some very strange things," John observes, and Sherlock snaps his head up, a guilty blush already pricking at his cheeks. But while John is looming in the doorway with his arms crossed, his posture is loose and easy, and his expression is on the edge of laughter.

"I'm not bored," Sherlock protests, skipping ahead a bit in the conversation.

"Didn't think you were," John replies good-naturedly. "But you'll get there eventually, and I was going to get condoms and lube anyway, since I figured we'd get _there_ eventually too. So, two birds and one stone and all that."

John giggles while gesturing grandly at the many scattered components of future experiments waiting to be designed.

"Plus it gave me great joy to think of Mycroft signing off on all this in his next expense report."

It seems that while Sherlock has been graciously forgiven, John is holding somewhat of a grudge against Mycroft, and the younger Holmes finds that he's entirely in charity with the idea. Sherlock beams up at his beloved from his seat on the floor.

"I would like some of my infinite kisses now, please."

But John just grins and shakes his head. This is manifestly unfair. Sherlock had said "please".

"The kisses will keep, but the groceries won't. Come and help me, and then I'll tell you where your microscope's hidden, and you can have all the kisses you want."

Sherlock scrambles up and scampers over to the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the symbol shows up properly, however you're viewing this story, but just in case it doesn't, the last line of the inscription on Sherlock's new phone case is an "x" and an eternity symbol.


	22. An Unexpected Visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Head's up: John reacts protectively to having an unexpected visitor and Sherlock briefly panics. It's just Mycroft, though, so no worries.

When Sherlock finds out that his microscope is located in the brand new mini laboratory built out in 221C, complete with a refrigerator, freezer, incubator, autoclave, and plenty of filtration and ventilation, he nearly dances out of his own skin with glee. Even John's comment of "Mycroft's idea, actually" does nothing toward dampening his enthusiasm.

When John reminds him that they're still confined to the upper storeys, he squawks in outrage and then goes on a rant that begins with logical arguments but rapidly descends into unflattering assessments of his brother's person and personality. He grows so increasingly noisy that John ends up wrestling him onto the couch and quieting him down with an arsenal of shushes (agravating), muffling hands (bitten), consoling kisses (grudgingly accepted), and a few strategic gropes (highly effective).

"You're feeling better," John comments, when they've finally settled down into a mess of sweaty limbs, out of breath and too warm, and the button on John's denims pressing uncomfortably into Sherlock's hip bone but neither of them particularly motivated to untangle.

"I am feeling _thwarted_. He allowed me to have a _phone_ , John. He knows it'll only take me a few hours at the most to disable the security measures. Once I have access to the internet and a means to communicate with whomever I wish, what would be the point of continuing to restrict me to the upper floors? Tyranny! Petty, fatuous tyranny!"

'Fatuous' is a pleasing insult to use because it has the word 'fat' in it.

"Patience, love," John chuckles, and Sherlock scowls because the endearment is so effective at making his chest feel all glowy and warm, and John is ruining the good long sulk that Sherlock is entitled to.

"I meant physically," John continues, with one hand spidering down Sherlock's ribs, sneaking under his shirt, and tracing some very distracting circles on the bare skin underneath. "You almost threw me off a couple of times, there."

"I have an excellent doctor." Sherlock sets aside his ill humor for now in favor of giving John an appreciative peck. He has not forgotten his mission; to live up to John's belief in Sherlock, of having a great heart and brilliant mind, of deserving the honor of being John's best friend and the most important person in his life.

John kisses back immediately. Of course he does. It doesn't even take Sherlock by surprise anymore, that his affection is reciprocated, and his desire met and matched with enthusiasm. He doesn't have to remind himself that he can kiss, and touch, and let his smiles stretch as fond and wide as he wants. Blunt fingernails scratch their way up his back as John tries to draw him closer though they're already plastered to each other, and Sherlock thinks up dozens of new experiments on the spot.

Just then, John's phone chirps in an unfamiliar pattern. One, two, one; short, high-pitched beeps.

Sherlock finds himself alone on the couch, and before he can register the sudden loss of body heat in goosebumps along his form, he's scrambling up as well. He'd heard commands - had heard the _tone_ of command - and obeyed, though it takes another split second to register that what John had said was,

"Someone's coming. Take this. Crouch down in front of the sink."

'This' is a Glock 17, cold and heavy in his hand.

John is on one knee, having just pulled a matching weapon from under the sofa.

It's like having gotten acclimated to a long vacation ( ~~honeymoon~~ ) in a tropical clime, only to have an afternoon stroll interrupted by a blizzard. The sun is blotted out, snow slaps and stings at his exposed skin, a shrieking wind blinds and deafens him, and he is left grasping frantically for something, anything that makes sense amidst this unexpected turn of events.

(Where is his SIG?) The handgun fits neatly in John's hand, but it's just one more unexpected detail that makes his breath come shallow and short.

(Why are there firearms in the furniture?!) Sherlock's heart rate ratchets up yet again as he wonders how he'd missed reasoning out their existence. How many other details has he missed in the past few weeks? Had he missed anything important in the past two years?

(Who's coming?) He can't hear anything over the blood rushing in his ears, can't see anything past a sudden case of micropsia as panic digs its claws deeper into him. Stupid, _stupid_ to let himself get so caught up in the idyllic isolation of Baker Street that he'd forget why he was confined to these quarters in the first place.

(What did I fail to see, deduce, predict, plan against, prepare for--)

He is panicking.

He hasn't been so long at home now as to have forgotten how to survive. As soon as he recognizes the state he's fallen into, Sherlock begins getting himself out of it. He breathes in, and makes himself hold it for a five-count. In that moment of suspended operations, he shakes himself, tightens his grip on the gun and reality, and reassesses. The safety is on. He thumbs it off and kneels in the corner as directed, surrounded by pipes and appliances, and out of view of both the rooftop garden and the staircase. He breathes out slowly over a four-count, and looks over to the living room.

John is up again, looking at his phone briefly before pocketing it. There are footsteps coming up, measured and unhurried and _familiar_ , and perhaps more importantly, unheralded by any alarming commotion. Even if the security team had somehow been neutralized before being able to shout or shoot - highly improbable, with one of them having had time to send off a signal to John - there would have been thuds as their bodies hit the floor. Sherlock uncurls and unclenches, rising to his feet even as John glances over and nods.

"Mycroft," John murmurs, and makes no protests as Sherlock leaves his corner. The gun stays ready, however, and John remains standing with his body angled, presenting less of a target to the doorway.

Sherlock allows himself to be tucked protectively behind his doctor-physical therapist-bodyguard-boyfriend- _John_ , but his own Glock is safetied and slipped behind a cushion. When this relaxing of defensive measures brings no protest from the soldier standing guard, he floomphs down onto the sofa and arranges himself into the best languid lounge he can manage in the few seconds he has left. There is an eloquent snort from before him.

The brolly enters the room first, followed by gleaming brogues and impeccable suit and toffeed nose.

"Stand down, Captain," Mycroft orders, by way of greeting.

"Call first next time," John retorts, keeping the gun in his hand for just long enough to make it plain that when he finally does tuck it into the back of his jeans, he's not doing it because Mycroft says to. Sherlock doesn't bother hiding his grin.

As if to further prove how perfectly suited to Sherlock he is, John's next order of business is to utterly ignore their guest in favor of placing a concerned, comforting hand upon Sherlock's shoulder.

"All right?"

Sherlock's heart rate is still elevated and there's no hiding the slight sweat still gleaming upon his skin, but he's got his breathing under control at least, and in front of Mycroft is not how he wants to decompress and debrief. He gives John a simple nod and smile, and while it's not entirely convincing, it's good enough for the moment.

Priorities taken care of, John's manners reassert themselves, and he turns back to offer Mycroft a chair and a cup of tea. While John puts a tray together in the kitchen, the brothers pick each other over across the coffee table, light eyes darting this way and that, lingering over a wrinkle, sharpening over a fingernail. It's soothing in its own way, the ease with which they settle into this initial sortie even after all this time apart. After a few seconds, however, Sherlock finds himself collecting data merely for the comfort of finding Mycroft as familiar as ever he was, and not because he is searching for ammunition with which to arm himself. This discovery is made palatable by the nearly simultaneous observation that his brother's sharp gaze has softened, and that he seems to be simply enjoying the sight of Sherlock looking quite healthy and whole.

Mycroft has not suffered in the same way and to similar extent as John and Sherlock, but...

He'd endured two years of minimal involvement in and sporadic updates on a mission that had the potential to inflict considerable ruin upon his life, both professionally and personally, but that he could not acknowledge even existed. Sherlock had not emerged unscathed by any means, and could not have predicted the way in which John had welcomed him back. He now looked back at his relationship with his brother and wondered how it, too, would prove to have changed.

John breaks the silent exchange of stares with tea and accompanying cakes and inane chat. Milk and sugar, slices and forks; John dutifully small-talks his way through the entire ceremony of playing the good host, and the Holmes brothers cautiously draw nearer each other as the meeting begins.


End file.
